


Cup Half Full

by anemonen, ashindk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Aurors, Case Fic, Drama, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anemonen/pseuds/anemonen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashindk/pseuds/ashindk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Ron are investigating a case involving suspected Death Eater activity, an ancient magical artefact and two murders. As junior Aurors, they end up being in over their heads, and Hermione suggest that they contact one of her co-workers:  Draco Malfoy - archaeologist, department head at the Magical Heritage Foundation and still a snarky git, as far as Harry is concerned. Meanwhile, Percy is trying to turn the whole thing into a publicity stunt, and something is very, very wrong with Ron's magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cup Half Full

**Author's Note:**

> Mod Note: **We'd like to remind all visitors that the art and fiction created for the Harry Big Bang is not to be copied, repurposed, or redistributed without express permission from the artist who created it and that we have exclusivity until 7 March 2015. You are welcome to recommend fics and art by linking back to the post on Ao3, but not to copy and repost elsewhere.**
> 
> Writing this fic has been a huge experience for me. I've learned so much during the writing process, and I've got to know so many wonderful people while working on it. I've had a lot of help with this from different people. A lot can happen during a year, and some had to leave during the writing process, but I'd like to thank all of them for their help and encouragement. A special thanks to lyonessheart for jumping in as a beta when I was almost ready to give up on this. And to anemonen for the beautiful art. It's been such a pleasure working with both of you! Also thank you to the mods for helping me finish the last editing when I was defeated by gravity on the same day the fic was due!

The Leaky Cauldron is full of happy, relaxed people celebrating the end of the work week. Harry nods at a few Hogwarts friends and coworkers from other departments, while carefully levitating a tray full of Butterbeer towards the huge splotch of red Auror robes at the back of the room. He’s met with a chorus of exclamations from his friends and colleagues.

“Harry, mate!”

“There he is! The man we’ve all been waiting for!”

“Oi! Harry, let me have one of those pints over here!”

He puts the tray down on the table next to Ron and grabs one of the glasses.

“A toast! To the man who saved the day!”

Their team mates clap and cheer and Ron hides his blush in his beer. Harry smiles. Ron will never change. The thought brings an odd little twinge of half regret. After all the attention the war has brought, after being accepted into Auror training with the best score in over a decade, even after advancing to full Auror in record time, he’s still surprised when people pay attention to him. But Ron deserves to be celebrated. When the suspect fled into Madam Merriweather’s Preschool for Young Witches and Wizards, Harry was almost prepared to let him escape to spare the children from witnessing a full on duel. But Ron saved the day with a well aimed and lightening quick stunner.  
The noise dies down a little, and people start talking about the case, Ministry gossip and their weekend plans.

“Hermione is planning to kidnap you.” Ron is leaning close enough for their conversation to remain private. “She says we need to take you out clubbing. To get your mind off things, she said. She’s taking Rose to spend the night at Ginny and Neville’s. Just thought I’d warn you.”

Ron looks sympathetic, but Harry knows that if Hermione has set her mind to something, he’ll be powerless to stop her. It’s been six month since he came home to an empty flat and a letter from Philippe saying that he was moving back to Paris. He had hoped that Hermione would leave him alone for awhile yet, but hopefully a night out clubbing will be the extent of it. He really doesn’t want to become her next cause.

“Thanks for the warning, mate.”

“I tried to tell her that you’re fine…”

“Yeah, I know. I am. And a night out will be fun.”

He hopes it will, at least. It’s been too long since they’ve been out together, all three of them. The last time must have been at the beginning of February, when Hermione got promoted to do whatever it is that she does as an Unspeakable, which means that he has been doing practically nothing but working for almost three weeks.

“How’s the Unspeakable thing going anyway?” He grins at Ron and raises his glass in a silent toast. “Can I ask her about it, or is she going to Obliviate me just for talking about it?”

“She can’t tell you much about the actual work. She’s able to tell us a few things because Aurors have class b clearance, but no details or anything really exciting. And I’m dead curious! She’s working on a project right now that has her wearing wellies to work and coming home covered in mud. And the only thing she can tell me is that she’s working with Malfoy! And then she shoots me this meaningful look, like I’m supposed to figure out what the project is about, just from knowing that she’s working with that bloody wanker! The only thing that tells me is that it’s something Dark. And probably illegal.” Ron scowls into his pint with so much feeling it makes Harry laugh.

“Stop trying to Divine what she’s doing from the patterns in your beer foam, mate! Hermione’s brilliant. She’s been able to handle Malfoy since third year, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

Harry remembers too. There’s a vivid flash in his mind of scorching heat, wiry arms around his waist, a chest pressed against his back, and shallow puffs of breath in his ear. He shakes it off quickly. He hasn’t thought about Draco Malfoy in years, and he’s not about to begin now.

“It’s disturbing that you’re smiling like that when you’re thinking about your wife punching someone in the face, you know,” he says.

“I know.” Ron tries–and fails–to get the besotted grin under control.

Harry can’t help the answering smile stretching slowly across his own face. Ron and Hermione really are the perfect couple, and he’s so happy to have witnessed them going from friends to lovers to the settled couple with a baby they are now. They really deserve their happiness after everything that’s happened. He mentally shakes himself. An end of the week trip to the pub with his colleagues is not the time or the place to be sentimental.

Ron seems to be thinking something along the same lines. “I’ll get the next round,” he announces loudly, and scrambles to his feet to a chorus of cheering from their mates.

Ron doesn’t get as far as the bar before there’s a sudden drop in volume in the room. At the same time, Harry feels the buzzing of the alarm on his ID badge. He pulls it out of his pocket, just like every other Auror in the room, and when he sees the faint red glow surrounding the previously dull brass, he turns on the spot, with the loud pops of his colleagues’ Disapparation ringing in his ears.

Level two is absolute chaos when Harry Apparates in. He elbows his way through the milling crowd of MLE officers and office staff towards the Auror department, and the relative calm of the conference room. Spotting a mop of red hair, he slinks down into the chair next to Ron, just as Head Auror Savage comes through the door, wearing a wrinkled uniform and a deep frown. She’s carrying a slim casefile under one arm, and has her wand gripped in her hand.

“Looks serious,” he whispers to Ron before the room is called to order.

“Please listen, people! We have a SDEA case. Someone performed dark magic at the crime scene. Dark enough to set off the SDE trace.” The room erupts in a frantic rush of whispers. Suspected Death Eater Activity is rare, nowadays. When they were trainees, there were still a good amount of suspected sightings and use of curses that set off the trace which had been put in place after the war, but back then Harry and Ron were never allowed anywhere near the actual crime scenes. Harry can feel the adrenaline rushing through him, and without really meaning to, he feels for the comfortable shape of his wand inside its holster. The familiar feel of the well worn holly against his palm settles him somehow, makes it easier to focus on the briefing going on at the front of the room.

Savage uses her wand to project images from the crime scene onto the wall: the responding DMLE officers standing guard against the door leading out of the cluttered bedroom, and he spots Cho Chang in her lime green healer robes apparating in with the medical team. Not that there’s anything they’ll be able to do, Harry thinks. The man lying on the bed is definitely dead. There’s blood everywhere.

“Jones, Williamson, you’re on observation duty. I want you to organise eyes on all residences of former Death Eaters as well as any suspected sympathisers. Get DMLE involved, and you have my permission to talk with the Department of Mysteries if you need more substantial surveillance charms in place.”

Williamson’s voluminous belly sweeps his notepad off the table as he climbs to his feet. He’s got a cold and boring night ahead of him, and he doesn’t bother hiding his scowl. Someone snickers, but is cut off abruptly by Savage’s next bark of names.

“Potter, Weasley, I want you at the crime scene, and I want you visible to the public, going in. Head over there now. You can get the apparition coordinates from dispatch. Secure the scene and the evidence and report back with a memory for the Pensieve before you do anything else. No heroics, no pursuits, no duelling. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” Ron scrambles to his feet. Harry hurries to follow him. They’re already at the door when Savage starts giving orders to the other teams about border monitoring and extra protection for the Muggle Prime Minister.

The crime scene is in a small cottage surrounded by an overgrown garden and a fence that might once have been white. Everything is covered by a slushy, grey layer of sleet that seeps into the fabric of their cloaks and trousers on the short walk from the street to the front door. The cottage is sitting on a dirt road on the outskirts of a Muggle village, and any hope Savage may have had of reassuring the public by sending Harry and Ron there is clearly in vain. There’s not a single person in sight, apart from the two DMLE officers slouching against the door. The older of the pair gives them a quick once-over and doesn’t bother asking for ID when he sees their red robes. He also doesn’t bother returning their greeting, but he does push away from the door enough for them to slip by. The younger one, Davies, who sometimes comes along on after-work trips to the Leaky Cauldron, greets them with a smile. 

“What’s the status?” Ron asks.

“No sign of the perpetrator. We locked the Floo for incoming traffic as soon as the medical team got here. Healer Chang and her team are just finishing up. We’ll escort them back through and lock for outgoing.”

“Thanks Davies. See you back at Level Two, yeah?”

“Sure. Have fun. It’s disgusting in there.”

The cottage is a pit. There’s the clutter that comes from someone living alone and not bothering to pick up after himself; plates of half eaten food, cold cups of tea and an overflowing ashtray are scattered over every available surface. And then there are all the signs of someone ransacking the place. Furniture has been tipped over, the cupboard is gaping open and an old cloak has been tossed on the floor. A few books have been tossed to the ground, surrounded by torn out pages. A beer bottle has been knocked over and a puddle of cheap, Muggle lager is seeping into the threadbare carpet next to the upended armchair. Harry mentally catalogues it all, careful to look in all directions and take in as many details as possible for later Pensieve viewing. Beside him, he hears the familiar mumbling of Ron’s voice, while he casts detecting charms, trying to find out what kind of magic was last used here, and when.

Their teamwork is a well choreographed dance, as they work back to back, one of them facing the door at all times. It’s something that has been drilled into them since the first week of training, and by now it comes as naturally as breathing. They finish cataloguing the small living room in a couple of minutes and move towards the open bedroom door. The medical team have packed up and are standing in the doorway waiting for the go ahead to walk through the living room and Floo back to St Mungo’s.

“You can go ahead and use the Floo now,” Harry says. “Officer Davies will escort you. But please don’t touch anything on the way.”

The two mediwizards obediently start walking towards the Floo, but Ron stops Cho with a hand on her shoulder.

“Can you tell us anything?”

“Cutting curse. But not the usual kind. This one was directly aimed at his throat.”

“Right. Can you give me an estimated time of death?”

“Less than an hour ago. He must have bled out quickly.”

“Thank you, Cho.”

“No problem, Ron. I’ll owl the official report as soon as I can.” She turns around and gives Harry a small smile. “Bye, Harry!”

They enter the bedroom and Harry almost gags at the smell.

“Bloody hell, this is disgusting!” Ron’s voice is slightly muffled by the Bubblehead Charm he has cast on himself. He’s looking at the dead man on the bed with an expression that’s more horrified than professionally neutral. Harry can’t really blame him. He casts a Bubblehead Charm on himself before stepping around the puddle of blood on the floor to take a closer look.

“Looks like he shat himself. Literally,” Ron mumbles.

And yes, Harry thinks, that is exactly what it looks–and smells–like. The disgusting smell comes from the soiled trousers clinging to the victim’s legs. Harry takes a closer look at the man, again cataloguing for the Pensieve. The victim is male and middle aged. He’s wearing a stained, grayish white shirt that might once have been part of a set of wizards’ formal wear, if the ruffles and the golden cuff links are any indication. His dark grey trousers are old and dirty. His face is sallow, but that may be due to the manner of death. His greying hair is swept back and tied with a black string at his nape. There is a yellow discolouration on the first and second finger of his right hand, likely caused by chain smoking. Harry’s eyes wander to a piece of parchment lying next to the victim’s wrist. It’s torn, but there is part of a drawing on it. A sunrise or sunset, and some lines. Harry carefully levitates it off the bed and keeps it hovering in mid air waiting for Ron to cast the usual protective charms on it. Instead, he conjures a very Muggle looking Ziploc bag. Harry sends him a questioning look and gets a sheepish grin in return.

“CSI! I saw it on the telly when we were visiting Hermione’s parents at Christmas. It means Crime Scene Investigators. It’s brilliant!”

“The telly. That’s great, mate. Does Savage think it’s brilliant too? Or are we going to get yelled at for contaminating the evidence?”

“Erm…“

“Never mind. This is much easier than protective charms.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Ron holds out the open bag and Harry slowly levitates the note inside.

“We should check him. See if he’s marked,” Ron says.

“Yes. I’ll lift his arm and you can unbutton the shirt.”

Touching a dead person is never going to be Harry’s favourite part of his job. But it is a part of being an Auror, and it has become easier over the years. When Ron unbuttons the cuff on the victim’s shirt, and slowly peels the fabric away from his forearm, Harry is almost disappointed to see that the parchment-thin, yellowish skin is unmarked. He’s placing the man’s arm back on the bed and turning around to cast a cleaning charm on his hands, when something catches his eye.

“Wait! His sleeve. See that cufflink? The engraving is charmed. Looks like some sort of cup or trophy with a snake slithering around on it.”

Ron conjures another plastic bag.

Harry stares at the small print on the memo-plane, and bangs his head against his desk in frustration. Ron pokes his head around the flimsy wall separating their cubicles.

“Oi! Harry! What’s the matter? A Pensieve transcript shouldn’t be that frustrating.”

Harry can’t help blushing.

“It’s not the transcript. It’s… erm… it’s your wife, actually.”

“What? How?”

“She’s set up a date for me. Says this bloke she’s working with has been asking about me and she wants me to meet him for coffee.”

“Oh. Sorry, mate.”

“Yeah. I know she just wants me to be happy, but…”

Ron is frowning at him. He makes that slightly constipated face that makes Harry hear sixteen-year-old Hermione’s voice in his head, lamenting the fact that boys have the emotional range of a teaspoon.

“Hermione’s good at figuring out that sort of thing. Maybe you should give it a go.”  
Harry barely keeps himself from banging his head against the desk again. He should have known Ron would eventually take Hermione’s side.

“But I don’t really want to have a blind date with an Unspeakable. What are we going to talk about? I’m telling her we’re busy with the case, but maybe when we’ve solved it.”

Ron frowns but nods and disappears back to his own cubicle.

Harry grabs a fresh memo-plane from the stack on his desk and jots down a quick message. Then he returns to the transcript he’s been looking at. There has to be some sort of clue there,some hint about who would murder an old pureblood wizard who’d fallen on hard times.  
He sighs and pokes his head around the wall. Ron startles and spits out a few bits of feather from the quill he’s been chewing on.

“That’s disgusting. And I’m stuck. Could we go over this together and see if you spot something I’ve missed?”

Ron jumps to his feet.

“Sure. I think the conference room is free. I’ll get a cuppa. D’you want one?

The conference room isn’t free, but the small interview room on Level Two is. Ron takes the good chair, and Harry grudgingly sinks down in the uncomfortable one they usually give to suspects.

“Do you want to ask the questions, or do you want me to?” Ron asks. This is a well worn routine. They go over cases by asking each other questions and providing the answers. Sometimes all it takes is someone asking the right question. Sometimes it’s not even necessary to ask, simply saying things out loud makes the last piece of the puzzle fall into place.

“You can start. We can always switch later if I’m not getting anywhere.”

“Okay then. What do we know about the victim?”

“His name is Adrian Wright. He’s in his fifties, pureblood, the family were known supporters of Voldemort, but he never took the Mark... or maybe it was never offered to him. His family lost everything after the first war and he’s been keeping to himself ever since, with the exception of trips to the Muggle shops in the village a few times a week for cigarettes and beer. His last known contact with the magical world was a Floo call a few weeks ago by his sister. Davies and his partner are trying to contact her. She’s the only living relative.”

“Right. And what about the perpetrator? Do we have any idea about the motive?”

“We don’t know for certain if they set off the trace, but if they did, they must have used Dark magic in some way. But other than that, we don’t know anything about who they are. The state of the crime scene indicates that they were looking for something. Perhaps a book or letter… looks like they took a lot of interest in the books, with all the ripped pages laying around everywhere.” Harry looks at Ron, and finds him nodding thoughtfully. “We should take a closer look at the books. See if there’s a particular kind they were looking for. That might give us a clue.”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea. Wright doesn’t really strike me as the type of bloke who owns a lot of books, anyway. There could be something there…”

“I’ll see if the Pensieve is available.Maybe we can save a trip back to the crime scene.”

They pull out of the Pensieve at the same time, gasping for air, and shaking their heads to clear away the disorientation. Harry speaks first, while Ron is still shaking his head like a dog, trying to dislodge the Pensieve liquid from his ears and spraying droplets all over the small, dark room. Harry has never understood why the only Pensieve in the Ministry must be stored in what must at one point have been the Department of Mysteries broom cupboard.

“Did you notice anything interesting?”

“Yeah. Those books were all huge and ancient. Not something you’d expect to find in a tip like that.” Ron wrinkles his nose.

“Yes, ancient and dark. I spotted both Magick Moste Evile and Secrets of the Darkest Art.”

“They must have come from his family home. Do you think the drawing next to the body came from one of the books?”

“It’s possible. But we’d have to match all the ripped out pages with the books to find out. It’d take forever, and probably lead to nothing.” Harry takes off his glasses and rubs at the pressure points where they’ve been digging into his nose. The idea of using hours matching scraps of paper doesn’t seem particularly attractive.

“Maybe not. Rose ripped out some pages from a few of Hermione’s books before she child-proofed her library.” Ron grimaces, and Harry can understand why. He can just about picture the look on Hermione’s face when she found her precious books torn and abused.

“She came up with a spell to put them back together. We could ask her how she did it,” Ron says.

“That’s brilliant! D’you think she’s here now, or do we have to wait until tonight?”

“Yeah. We’ll probably have to wait. Whatever it is that she’s doing with Malfoy and all the mud, she’s not doing it inside the ministry. She was able to tell me that much.”

“Okay. We’ll ask her tonight then.”

The lights in the club are dim, and the air is filled with multi-coloured smoke. The only well lit place is the small stage in the back, where a band is setting up. He spots Hermione and Ron at the bar, where Ron is talking animatedly to Seamus. Harry slips onto the stool next to Hermione, slinging an arm around her back in greeting.

“Harry! It’s so good to see you.” She returns his hug so enthusiastically that he almost slips off the barstool.

“It’s good to see you too,” he murmurs into her hair. "How's Mysteries?"

"Interesting. You know I can't tell you much more than that."

"And muddy, after what I hear..."

"That too." She waves a hand, as if wading through mud is a perfectly normal part of the job as an Unspeakable. Maybe it is. It’s not like he really knows anything about Unspeakables.

"How's the case going? The sooner you solve it, the sooner you'll have the time for that date." Her smile is so excited, he decides that discussing it isn't really worth the fuss. Instead he signals for the bartender to bring him an Ogden’s.

"About the case... I've been meaning to ask you about a spell for sorting out ripped-up books. Ron said you might know one?"

"Yes. I do. I had to invent it after Rose ripped half my books to shreds while Ron was supposed to watch her." The last sentence is sort of shouted in Ron’s direction, and he looks up with a sheepish smile before returning to his conversation with Seamus. It involves a lot of hand gestures and a few coasters and bottles, presumably illustrating Quidditch moves.

"You invented it yourself? That’s brilliant! Can you show me?"

"Of course. But not now. It's Friday night, Harry. You should have fun."

Damn it! He'd been counting on distracting Hermione by appealing to her swotty side.

"Come 'round for breakfast tomorrow and I'll show you?" She smiled at him. The expression was so earnest and concerned that all of a sudden it didn't matter how much of a nag she could be sometimes.

"Yeah. Sure."

“Now, go and dance! That blond bloke over there has been staring at your arse since you walked in.”

The Firewhiskey he’s been drinking escapes through his nose, leaving his sinuses burning and his eyes teary.

“Fuck’s sake, Hermione!” He gasps.

She hands over her glass of ice water and a napkin. “Well he has…”

“Not the bloody point,” he mumbles into the napkin. The pain is so intense he actually contemplates snorting the ice water on purpose.

“Oh, Harry! Let me fix it for you.” Hermione grabs his chin in one strong hand and tilts his head up.

He’s mildly alarmed when she aims her wand at his nose. But then she’s shooting a gentle cooling charm up first one nostril, and then the other one, and he sighs in relief as the pain fades away. He tries to sneak a look at the blond in the corner, and finds him trying–and failing–to hold back a laugh.

“Look at that! You’ve ruined any chance I might have had with him now.”

“I ruined your chances? Really, Harry? Then why is he on his way over here?”

Oh! Oh shit. Hermione’s right. The blond is coming over. Harry gulps a mouthful of ice water and wipes his hands on his jeans.

“I’ll just go and powder my nose.”

Hermione starts making her way to the toilets, but Harry isn’t alone for long.

“Hello,” the blond says.

Harry looks up at him and… yes. He’s slim, lightly toned and well dressed. If Harry had been with enough blokes to have a type, this would be it. The man smiles at him, revealing straight, white teeth.

“Hi,” he manages.

“I couldn’t help noticing you had a bit of trouble with your drink. Would you like me to buy you another one? I’m Adam, by the way.”

Oh, great. He can feel a blush creeping into his cheeks at the mention of his mishap. Hopefully the club is too dark for it to be noticeable.

“Harry. And yes, please. But perhaps not Firewhiskey this time.”

“Nice to meet you Harry. A pint? Or something stronger?”

“A pint would be fine. Thank you.”

Adam places their order of beer and slips onto Hermione’s abandoned stool.

“At the risk of sounding cliché, do you come here often?”

“I… no. Not really. My friends persuaded me to come out with them tonight, actually.”

“Ah. So you’re not planning to stay then?”

“I wasn’t. But things are looking a lot more interesting now.” Harry smiles in a way that he hopes is just the right mixture of seductive and friendly. He’s crap at these things, so he probably looks more constipated than smoldering, but Adam doesn’t seem to mind.

“Interesting? Hmm. I think so too. So, what do you do, when you’re not choking on your Firewhiskey, Harry?”

Oh. So Adam hasn’t recognised him yet. Harry relaxes a bit. Perhaps he should try to stay anonymous for a while longer. Just to postpone the moment where the conversation turns from awkward flirting to awkward remembrance of dead loved ones.

“Erm. I work in law enforcement. What about you?”

Harry groans and fumbles for his wand, before he’s even fully awake. His head is throbbing, and the dim, misty morning light seems more piercing than the fiercest sunlight. He finally manages to close his hand around his wand and Summon a hangover potion. The small vial comes zooming out of the bathroom, just in time for him to realise that his once-honed Seeker reflexes are not what they used to be. The vial hits him in the chest with a dull thump and lands safely in the bundled up duvet. He unstoppers it and gulps down the contents before the foul smell can make him change his mind. The vice-like grip on his temples eases up immediately, and the light seems to dim down to a bearable level. He throws the duvet off and pads into the kitchen. There’s some orange juice in the fridge and he gulps it down greedily. One of the perks of being single–Philippe always hated when he drank out of the bottle, even if he threw it away after.

When he looks up after finishing the entire bottle of juice, there’s an owl landing on his window sill. It’s one of the slightly bedraggled looking ministry owls, and Harry sighs. More work. On a Saturday morning. Lovely! He opens the window, and avoids getting bitten by the grumpy bird long enough to untie the message from its leg and shove it back outside.

_  
_

Auror Potter,  
Please report to Level Two as soon as you read this. There has been a development in the case you are working on. Auror Weasley has been informed and is instructed to meet you at the Ministry.

With another sigh, he crumples the parchment into a small ball and throws it in the rubbish bin. He makes his way to the bathroom and takes a quick shower. The hot water makes him remember the feeling from last night of strong hands trailing over his back and lower, and his cock starts to fill. He gives it a couple of lazy tugs, feeling the tingling warmth start to rise and spread, but he really doesn’t have time for a proper wank. Instead he turns the water to cold and thinks about work. He reaches for a clean towel, but the rack is empty and the hamper is overflowing. He dries himself off with a couple of quick swipes of the not-too-clean towel next to the sink instead, and shoots a drying charm on his hair, making it stick up even more than usual. He throws on a pair of jeans and the first shirt he lays hands on, which happens to be an old Chudley Cannons t-shirt Ron got him for his birthday a few years ago. He really, really needs to do his laundry as soon as he gets home. He covers the obnoxious orange shirt with his robes and steps into the Floo. 

He almost barrels right into Ron in the Atrium. He’s spelling away something that looks like either snot or porridge from his sleeve, so Harry guesses that it was his turn to get up early with Rose this morning.

“Morning.”

“Yeah. Morning. Nothing good about it,” Ron grumbles.

“Do you know why we’re here?”

“Not a clue. I was just fixing Rose’s porridge when one of those grumpy owls delivered a message, telling me to get here and that you’d be here too. That’s all I know. It was my turn to cook breakfast and wake Hermione up just before you were supposed to come over. She’s not best pleased about missing her Saturday lie in.”

“Yeah. I can imagine.” Harry winces. Hermione had lost her former love for early starts after becoming a mum. These days she’ll happily stay in bed until noon, if given the chance. And she doesn’t take disturbances lightly.

The lift door opens and they enter. The Ministry is deserted this time on a Saturday morning. No one else needs to get on or off the lift, so the ride to Level Two is quicker than usual.

They’re greeted with a murmur of voices from the Aurors and MLE officers on duty. Hestia Jones and Jolene Harris are finishing up their night shift by discussing something that involves a lot of pointing at the huge map of London on the wall. Their red robes are slung over the backs of their chairs, and if Jolene’s singed hair is any indication, they’ve had quite the exciting night.  
Hestia waves at them, and comes over.

“Hiya, Harry. Ron!”

“Morning! Good shift?” He nods at the scorch marks on her sleeve, and she grins up at him. She has a black smudge across one cheek, and her hands look like she’s been using them to clean a fireplace.

“We finally caught the illegal fireworks manufacturers.”

“That’s great! Savage’ll be happy with that.”

“I hope so.” Hestia's grin turns slightly smug, but he can't really blame her. The fireworks case has been giving them headaches for weeks.

“Do you know why we’ve been called in?”

She shrugs. “Sorry. No idea.”

One of the MLE officers, Jenkins, comes towards them at a jog. He’s broad and has a very impressive moustache that reminds Harry of Horace Slughorn.

“Oh, great! You’re here. We have another murder, and it seems it’s connected to the one yesterday.”

“Is Savage here?”

“No. She told me you would handle it, since it’s your case. I’ll take you through to the crime scene.”

Of course she did. It takes a lot more than a murder case to get the Head Auror out of bed before eight a.m. on a Saturday.

“Right. Did it set the trace off?”

“No. It didn’t. We’re not even sure which murder was committed first, actually. It’s right this way.” He gestures towards the MLE Floo.

“If it didn’t set off the trace, then what’s the connection?”

“The victims are related.”

“The sister?”

“Twin sister, yes. Adrienne Wright.”

Adrian and Adrienne. Poor kids! Harry follows Ron into the fireplace and Jenkins throws down the Floo Powder, shouting Adrienne Wright’s address.

Davies is on duty again, but this time he’s wearing a Muggle police uniform, and Harry is glad that Ron had the good foresight to cast glamours on their robes before they exited the Floo in the nearby apothecary. They nod at Davies and his partner, and slip inside before anyone in the street starts paying attention to them.

Adrienne’s home is the polar opposite to her brother’s in many ways. For a brief moment, Harry feels like he has stepped into Umbridge’s old office. There is a lot of floral patterned chintz and doilies. And cats. Lots of cats. A fat, white one winds itself around his legs and purrs loudly.

“Bloody hell!” He looks over at Ron and finds him trying to dislodge a Kneazle that seems to have decided to climb his leg. He’s looking so disgusted that Harry bursts into a very inappropriate laugh. After all, this is a murder scene.

“They must be hungry, if she’s been dead since yesterday.”

“Yeah. Hang on. I’ll tell Davies to get a hold of someone from Creatures.”

Ron goes back outside, careful not to let any of the cats escape. Harry takes a closer look at the sitting room. It has a bay window with fluffy, chintz armchairs and a chaise longue that look like they belong in a much larger room. There’s a dining area towards the back, filled with furniture that seems to be made for grander surroundings. Everything is neat and orderly.

“Someone will be here to take care of the cats as soon as we clear the scene. And they’ve sent an MLE officer out to buy cat food. He’ll feed them in the hall. Hopefully that’ll keep them occupied for a while.”

“Brilliant. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Yeah. Davies said she’s in the bedroom, same as her brother.”

“Yes. Might be a coincidence?”

“Might be. Or maybe it’s not. It’s something to keep in mind, at least.”

At first glance the bedroom looks undisturbed. But then Ron casts a charm to draw the curtains on the modest four poster bed aside, and there she is. Adrienne Wright. She’s wearing a baby pink dressing gown and fuzzy slippers. And it looks like the cause of death is the same as it was for her brother. There’s a gaping wound in her neck and a crusty pool of dried blood on the sheet.

Ron is already conjuring one of his Muggle evidence bags, when Harry spots the pendant. It’s almost obscured by the blood, but the engraving is the same as on the cuff link. A snake writhing around the stem of a cup or trophy.

“What do you think it means?” Ron squints at a photo of the pendant and the cuff link.

“I don’t know. It’s not their family crest. I checked.”

“Maybe it’s someone else’s crest.”

“Yeah. D’you think Hermione would know? We need to ask her about the spell for the books anyway.”

“Probably. Or she’ll know where we can find out. Let’s go.”

Ron is already grabbing his robes from the rack, and Harry hurries down the corridor to catch up.

They Floo right into a fierce discussion between two very stubborn people.

“NO.” Rose is saying.

“Yes, Rosie. You have to wear socks. It’s cold. Look! There’s snow on the ground,” comes Hermione’s weary reply. This is obviously a conversation which has been going on for some time.

“Uncle Harry!”

Harry only just has time to kneel before a pair of small, round arms are flung around his neck, and his nose is buried in bushy red curls.

“Hello, Rose. How are you?”

“Mummy is telling me to put my socks on. Again.” She draws her head back far enough to send him a look that tells him what a very silly idea she believes socks to be.

“Your Mummy is a very clever woman, Rose. Maybe she’s right.”

She huffs at him and lets go of his neck. Harry grins at Hermione over the top of her head as she stalks over to a pair of fluffy green socks and grudgingly starts putting them on.

“Hello Hermione.”

The three of them are sitting in Ron and Hermione’s cosy kitchen, warming their hands on steaming mugs of tea and nibbling on Ron’s home baked biscuits. The photo is on the table between them, and Hermione is tracing the drawing with a finger.

“I don’t know what this is, but it’s not a traditional crest. There are certain elements in all the old families crests, and they’re missing in this drawing. I have a copy of Nature’s Nobility if you want to look it up, but I think it’s more likely that it’s a symbol of sorts.”

“A symbol?” Ron frowns into his tea cup. “Like the triangle is a symbol of the Deathly Hallows?”

“Yes. Perhaps. I don’t know exactly. The snake is a traditional symbol of Dark magic. Or dangerous knowledge. The cup might be a chalice. A vessel which is used to hold something valuable. Does that help?” Hermione gives them a hopeful look.

Harry shakes his head. “Not right now, to be honest. But it might, once we get the books sorted and find out if there are any pages missing.”

“I can teach you the spell, if you want. But it’s rather complicated, so it might take a while. Or I could go with you and cast it. I’m sure Molly won’t mind looking after Rose.”

“Hermione, it’s a crime scene!” Ron sounds scandalised, but Hermione is already reaching for the Floo powder.

“I do have Level A clearance, Ronald. In case you forgot,” she tells him over her shoulder.

Ron shrugs and picks up Rose and her discarded socks.

Hermione is standing in Adrian Wright’s small living room with her hands on her hips and her feet slightly apart. It looks like the beginning of a duelling stance, and Harry can’t really blame her. There are bits of paper and parchment everywhere.

“Right, then. I’ll cast the spell to repair all the books, and then I’ll cast another one to identify any books or scrolls with missing pages.” She looks over her shoulder at them. “You should wait outside.”

¨”Why?” Ron asks.

“Because this room is about to become a veritable paper blizzard.”

Oh! Right. They step into the bedroom and Ron closes the door behind them. Harry’s relieved to see that the body has been moved. But other than that, nothing has been touched since yesterday. They can hear Hermione casting the spell, followed by a hasty shield charm. Then there is a loud rustling, followed by a series of heavier thumps, and another spell.

“You can come back in now,” Hermione calls.

Harry peeks around the door. The room is completely changed. The scraps of paper are gone, and the books have arranged themselves into neat stacks on the floor. A few tomes are glowing faintly, indicating that there are pages missing. He skims the titles; Sonnets of a Sorcerer, You & Your Owl, Secrets of the Darkest Arts… And a leather bound diary. He picks up Sonnets. The title page is partly ripped and glowing. He puts it back. Ron is thumbing through You & Your Owl. He holds it up for Harry to see. The glowing is concentrated on what looks like a beak mark on page 56. Which leaves the diary and Secrets of the Darkest Arts. Not exactly surprising. He reaches for Secrets, thinking that the diary is likely the one they want, but wanting to check anyway. Hermione stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait! You should probably be the one to pick it up, Ron”

“Why?”

“Because it won’t harm you.” Harry doesn’t have to look at Hermione to know that she’s rolling her eyes. “You’re a pure-blood.”

“Oh, right.”

The missing page is towards the back. Ron turns a few pages, and Harry leans over his shoulder to read the chapter title, Magic Theft.

“Killing two people over a spell for nicking things? That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?” Ron says.

“Maybe it’s not that book after all,” Hermione points at the diary. “Maybe it’s this one.” She draws her wand and starts casting spells on it. She dismantles a few hexes and when she deems it safe, she opens the slim book. A bunch of pages have been ripped out, leaving only the first few letters of every word.

“But this could be anything!” Harry takes it from her and snaps it shut. Ron has already conjured an evidence bag. “We’ll have a look at it back at the ministry.”

He’s already walking towards the door with Ron, when Hermione calls them back.

“Wait! This chapter is not about spells to help you become a thief.” She’s got Secrets of the Darkest Arts floating in front of her and is using her wand to turn the pages.

“Listen to this: Stealing Magic also known as Theft Spells is used when a witch or wizard wishes to acquire the magic of other witches or wizards. This is not your everyday Unforgivable, for it goes against the very nature of magic to be transferred from one individual to another. Only very few have tried to do this, and fewer still have succeeded.” She points at where the page has been ripped out. “And look! There were handwritten notes in the margin here.”

“That sounds more like something you’d kill people for. And the people who are interested in that sort of thing sound exactly like the sort that wouldn’t think twice about setting off a SDEA alarm.”

“Yeah.” Ron is reading over Hermione’s shoulder. “It says something here about a vessel for storing the magic. The Chalice of Infinite Magic.”

“A chalice!” Hermione says. “Of course! Like the one on the pendant. And the cuff links!”

“We need to find another copy of Secrets of the Darkest Arts. I want to read the page that has been ripped out.”

“There’s one at the library in the department of mysteries. And it’s clear of Dark magic, so we’ll be able to handle it.”

Harry has squeezed his chair into Ron’s cubicle so they can go over the books together. The dusty tome from the Department of Mysteries might be clear of Dark magic, but it’s still almost humming with an unpleasant energy which feels like bugs crawling all over his skin and makes him want to wipe his fingers clean every time he turns a page. He surreptitiously rubs his hand on his thigh, and instantly regrets it, when the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of his trousers reminds him of last night. He quickly dismisses the thought of warm hands that aren’t his own, and shakes his hand to get rid of the tingling feeling.

The ripped page describes how to create a vessel to store stolen magic. It also mentions a ritual to free the magic from the vessel, but the printed text doesn’t go into any detail about how to perform it. Harry and Ron are trying to make sense of the few letters left in the margin, when a red faced MLE officer knocks on the partition.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he pants. “But they’ve found a witness!”

“Blimpy is being very sorry! Blimpy was scared of the men in the robes.”

Harry runs a hand over his face, trying, and probably failing, to hide his frustration with the tiny quivering elf. She’s wearing what looks like a frilly kitchen curtain draped like a toga, and a crochet doily as a floppy hat. Her feet are dangling off the chair, and her hunched shoulders and wobbling lower lip make her look like a small, frightened child. Harry pastes on his most patient smile and tries again.

“It’s all right, Blimpy. We understand you were scared, and we’re not angry that you hid from us. But we need to know if you saw anything. When your mistress was killed, did you see who did it? Can you describe them to us?”

“It was the people in the black robes. They talked about the book, and then they killed Blimpy’s poor mistress.”

“That’s very good, Blimpy. Can you remember what they said?”

The elf nods and sniffles, and Harry conjures a handkerchief.

“Thank you, Auror Potter, Sir.” She blows her bulbous nose and spells the handkerchief clean with a flick of her fingers before handing it back. “They were arguing. The men said to Blimpy’s mistress that she should help them take the magic back from the Mudbloods. But Blimpy’s mistress always said that the men in black robes are plebs and unworthy and they should leave her alone. Mistress said that again to the new men and they killed her.”

“The new men? There have been others before?”

“Yes. Many years ago. Men in robes and masks came and asked about the book, and Mistress told them she didn’t know. And when they left, she told Blimpy they were not worthy and should leave us alone.”

“Men in robes and masks? Death Eaters?”

“Yes.” Blimpy’s ears quiver and she sinks even deeper into the chair.

“And these new men, were they Death Eaters too? Were they wearing masks?”

“No, Auror Potter, Sir. No masks. But they were having the bad magic. Like before. In the skull. Blimpy could tell.”

“The Mark?”

“Yes, Auror Potter, Sir. Blimpy didn’t see, but elf magic is not like human magic. Blimpy could tell!”

“I believe you, Blimpy.”

“They were saying they were the sunrise. The men in the robes. With the bad magic.” 

“That’s very helpful. Thank you, Blimpy.”

He gets up from his chair and gestures to the elf that she’s free to go. But before she can get up, a thought occurs to him.

“Do you have anywhere to go, Blimpy?”

“Yes, Auror Potter, Sir.” The little elf nods. “ Blimpy will be going to her mistress’ second cousin’s house.”

“That’s good, then. We’ll find you there if we need you. You’re free to go, Blimpy.”

The tiny elf nods and disappears with a snap of her fingers.

“The sunrise?” Ron frowns. “That sounds like nonsense. Unless… wait a minute. Do you remember last month? That crazy, drunk bugger we helped Davies haul in for harassing a Muggleborn! Howard. He kept babbling about a new dawn and how the new dawn would solve all our problems. I thought he was just pissed, but what if that’s actually a thing? The New Dawn?”

“We should try to track down Howard and have a chat with him.”

“It does sound pretentious as fuck,” Ron says. “But then again, so does ‘the Dark Lord’ and ‘Death Eaters’. Most dark wizards are just cocky little bastards, I reckon.”

Howard is a bully. There’s no other word for it. He’s big and hulking and slightly chubby in a way that reminds Harry uncomfortably of Dudley. Not that Dudders is a bully these days. He’s quite a nice bloke, actually. Harry goes for a pint with him once in awhile. But there’s a part of him that will always feel slightly threatened by big, hulking people, and Ron’s warm, solid presence next to him feels comforting. Howard is slouched in the uncomfortable chair in the interview room. He’s scowling defiantly, but his knee is bouncing and he’s chewing on a ragged thumbnail.

“Tell me again, Mr. Howard,” Ron is saying. “Are you, or do you know anyone who is affiliated with an organisation called the New Dawn.”

“Never ‘eard of it.” Howard spits a piece of chewed nail onto the table in front of him. Ron is out of his chair and in his face in an instant.

“Listen!” he spits through clenched teeth. “This is just a friendly chat. The only thing we can charge you with is the possession of contraband potion ingredients. That’ll give you a slap on the wrist. A few months at the most. But we’re investigating a SDEA case. Do you know what that means? It means I barely have to say the word before someone is here with a vial of Veritaserum, and I can make you spill all your dirty little secrets. And you’ll be charged with all of it! So I suggest you tell me what I need to know, or I’ll make you tell me everything!”

“All right, all right. No need to get your wand all bent out of shape! Maybe I’ve heard a few things after all.”

“Thought you might,” Ron mutters. “Go on!”

“One of my mates mentioned something about ‘em. Says they’re goin’ to rid us of all those Mudbloods running the place.”

“Right. So they’re neo Death Eaters?” There’s a vein pulsing in Ron’s temple.

Howard smiles, and Harry wonders about the man’s lack of self-preservation.  
“You might call ’em that, yeah.”

“And do you have any idea how they’re going to get rid of Muggleborns?”

“Dunno.” He’s back to scowling now.

Ron narrows his eyes. He stands up, places his hands flat on the table and leans towards Howards. “Veritaserum!” he hisses.

“Yeah, okay. One of ‘em. The leader, he says he has this great plan. He’s going to steal their magic. The Mudbloods’.”

Harry feels his blood run cold. Taking the magic form Muggleborns and leaving them as Squibs sounds horrible. He tries to picture Hermione without her magic, and… he can’t. He shudders.

“He’s going to steal their magic? How?” Ron asks levelly.

“I don’t know. And don’t start yelling about Veritaserum again, because that’s the truth!”

“What’s his name? The leader?”

“I don’t know. Goes by Bludger, though. Tornadoes fan. Missing a front tooth.”

“And where do we go, if we want to have a chat with him?”

“You might want to have a look inside the Beheaded Goblin.”

“The pub in Knockturn Alley?”

“Yeah.”

“Figures.”

Bludger is not an easy person to find. He’s not in the Beheaded Goblin when Harry and Ron go there on Sunday afternoon, disguised as a couple of middle aged Quidditch fans. They spend most of Monday and Tuesday reading through old cases, seeing if there’s any mention of the New Dawn or a chalice classified as a dark artefact. They come up with nothing, and in the afternoons they take Polyjuice and go to the pub. On Wednesday, Ron comes up with a slightly different plan. He thinks that the regulars at the pub might be getting suspicious of all the different newcomers, so instead of going in as a couple of blokes, he persuades the DMLE receptionist to donate one of her hairs, and asks Harry to wear his cloak. Perhaps a single girl will seem less suspicious.

They apparate to the back entrance of Borgin and Burkes, and Harry spends a few seconds making sure that he’s completely covered by the cloak.  
Ron is already making his way towards the pub. He’s wobbling slightly in his unfamiliar tight skirt and heels, and Harry takes a moment to be grateful that he’s invisible so Ron won’t see his smirk. He hurries to catch up and slips through the door with Ron.

The interior of the Beheaded Goblin is similar to any other shady sports pub. The floor is a little sticky from spilled beer, and there’s a loud Quidditch transmission on the Wireless in the corner. The barkeep is wiping down the counter with a dirty rag. A few regulars are nursing pints of cheap lager. Ron slides onto one of the bar stools and his tight skirt hitches up a little higher than appropriate. One of the regulars turns and smiles at him. He's missing one of his front teeth.  
Ron smiles at him, and Harry has to stifle a laugh, when he hears him start talking about how he’s a passionate collector of dark amulets, and how he just loves going into the ‘cute and quaint’ little shops in Knockturn to look for dark items.

Half an hour later, Ron hops down from the stool and excuses himself for the bathroom. He slips through the back door unseen, and Harry has to run to catch up with him outside Borgin and Burkes.

“Bloody hell! The stupid wanker tried to grab my tits. And he kept looking down my blouse!"

“I saw. Let’s get out of here. You think George will let us use the Floo?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m giving him years of free mocking material by showing up like this.”

Harry can’t help smiling. “Yeah, mate. You probably are.” He holds open the door to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and gallantly gestures for Ron to enter first.

“Mind if we use your Floo?”

“Not at all!” George lifts an eyebrow and gives Ron his most winning smile. “Who’s your friend?”

“This charming young lady is your baby brother.”

George’s face transform into a gleeful grin. “Oi! Ginny! Angelina! Come and say hello to Harry and his new girlfriend!”

Ron goes bright red. Apparently even Polyjuice can’t counteract his tendency to blush. “Fuck you, you wanker,” he hisses.

Ginny and Angelina are making their way over. Ginny is still holding on to the crate of extendable ears she was stacking, and Angelina is wiping her hand on her robes, ready to greet the new girl.

“Don’t listen to George. It’s just me.” Ron mutters mutinously.

“By ‘me’, she means Ron,” Harry adds helpfully.

Ginny punches George in the arm, but she’s smirking at Ron and her eyes are gleaming dangerously.

“You are such an idiot, George Weasley.” Angelina doesn’t quite manage to keep the affection out of her voice.

Ron starts walking towards the Floo without another word, and Harry hurries to follow him.

When they get back to Level Two, the Polyjuice is starting to wear off. Ron shrugs on his robes and slumps in his chair.

“Bloody hell! That was awful! His hands were all over me! Do women really have to put up with this? I’ll never scoff at one of Hermione’s sexism rants again!” He conjures a tissue and starts wiping off the makeup.  
Harry watches him rubbing at his face with the tissue. Like he can wipe off the memory of being felt up by a suspected Death Eater.

"What'd you get?" he finally asks.

"Not a lot." Ron throws the tissue away and shrugs. "Confirmed his identity. Had to listen to a lot of nonsense about pure-bloods and Death Eaters. He did say that he had ‘big plans’, but he didn’t go into any details.”

“Did you get his name?”

“Only his first. John.”

“John? Doesn’t sound particularly pure-blood to me.”

Ron shrugs.

“I suppose not. Think it’s fake?”

“Could be. Or he’s just not as pure-blooded as he pretends.”

There’s a rap on the partition and Hermione peeks around the corner. She’s a little muddy and windswept, and she’s smiling. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and apologises for the interruption.

“I’m going to pick up Rose now,” she says. “I’m getting curry on the way. Do you want to join us, Harry?”

“Might as well.” He shrugs. “We’re not getting anywhere with this.”

“Are you still having trouble with the case?”

“Yeah. We’ve identified the leader, but he’s not talking about the cup.”

Hermione shoots them that look. The one that means they’re missing something really, really obvious.

“Did you expect him to? Honestly! He’s the leader of a criminal organisation. Of course he’s not going to talk to outsiders.”

“But… we need him to tell us about the cup. You should have heard me yammering on about my interest in antiques.”

“Maybe you don’t. Have you thought about bringing in an expert? Someone who knows about ancient artefacts.”

“Who? Borgin and Burkes?”

“No. Draco Malfoy.”

They’re sitting on the sofa with a stack of take away containers spread across the coffee table. Rose is sleeping soundly, her head resting against Ron’s thigh and her feet in Harry’s lap. Harry can’t stop thinking about Hermione’s suggestion from earlier. Apparently, neither can Ron.

“But Hermione, it’s Malfoy.” Ron rolls up a piece of naan bread and stuffs it into his mouth.

“He’s a leading expert in the field.”

“Yeah. He’s a Death Eater,” Harry mutters.

Hermione narrows her eyes dangerously. “No he’s not! He’s an archaeologist. He specialises in ancient magical artefacts.”

“An archaeologist?” Ron sends her a sceptical look. “Doesn’t that interfere with his manicure or something?”

“Shut up, Ron. He’s running the Stonehenge excavations. His thesis about the magical symbols of Henge monuments was published in both Muggle and magical journals, and he’s been with the Magical Heritage Foundation for three years now. Draco is really good at what he does.”

Ron gapes at her. “ _Draco?_ Since when are you on a first name basis with that wanker?”

“Since we started working together. It was awkward at first, but Draco always puts work first. He’s not the kind of person who puts personal opinions before what’s best for the project he’s working on.” The last sentence is delivered with a very pointed look.

“So, he apologised for being a bully at school and told me that he was glad the Department of Mysteries sent me, because he knew I could handle the job. I Ward the excavation and keep the Muggles from noticing the huge trial trenches right under their noses.”

“He apologised to you?” Harry has to ask. Just to be sure he heard right, because he can’t really imagine Malfoy apologising to anyone.

Hermione turns soft, brown eyes on him and holds his gaze. “Yes. He’s actually a very pleasant person to work with.” She turns back to Ron and her eyes go hard. “He has grown up since Hogwarts.” She collects the empty containers and gets up to throw them away.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispers. He strokes Rose’s sweaty hair away from her face and shakes his head. “Your mother has gone soft in her old age. But don’t worry. I’ll always be the voice of reason in this family.”

“I heard that, Ronald!” comes the muffled reply from the kitchen.

Harry wakes up gasping from the feeling of soaring through sweltering air, with a pair of strong arms clinging to his waist. He stays perfectly still for a few moments, just breathing in the cool air of his bedroom and remembering that he’s safe in his bed, away from fiery monsters and imminent death. Judging by the weak light and muffled street noise seeping through the curtains, it’s early morning. He groans and rolls over, pulling the alarm clock closer and blinking at it, until the numbers come into focus. It’s nearly seven, and they’re meeting Malfoy at nine. He might as well get up.

Harry doesn’t know what he expected the excavation to look like, but it isn’t this. They pop into existence at the edge of the anti-Apparition boundary that Hermione has set up. An assistant wearing muddy wellies is waiting for them. He asks them not to cast any spells, and to only step on the wooden boards laid out for easy wheel barrow access. Most of the excavation site is deserted, but an area has been shielded from the elements by a huge tent. The assistant pulls the flap aside, and gestures for them to step through. Harry blinks at the sudden bright light inside, struggling to adjust.

“Mr. Malfoy? Your guests are here.”

“Thanks, Martin. Tell Catherine to double tag the pottery. It seems that she forgot. Again.”

Harry looks in the direction of the voice, and finally sees Malfoy. Or, part of him, at least, because Malfoy is kneeling with his back turned towards them. One arm is stretched out in front of him for support, and in the other, he’s holding a small trowel. He’s leaning down to look at something on the ground, which means that his very firm arse is showcased nicely inside heavy khaki trousers. Harry’s mouth suddenly goes dry, and he doesn’t quite know where to look. Luckily, Malfoy pushes smoothly to his feet and comes to greet them.

“Weasley, Potter. Welcome to the Stonehenge excavation.” He takes off his glove and holds out a slim hand for them to shake. Harry doesn’t hesitate. This is not the first time he’s held Malfoys hand, after all. A brief flash of a shaking, sweaty palm, desperately grabbing at his hand as fiery monsters dance in the background seeps into his mind, but he quickly banishes the flash back. Malfoy’s hand is cool and surprisingly soft, but the handshake is firm.

“Thanks for taking the time to talk to us. I can see you’re busy.”

“Yes, quite. But never mind. Let’s go to my office. It’s warmer and more private.”

Malfoy’s office is nothing like Harry has imagined. It’s a room in a converted workers shed, with shelves along one wall, and a large table. A Muggle laptop is in the corner, almost covered by rolled up sheets of drafting film.  
Malfoy gestures to a couple of plastic chairs along one side of the table, and motions for them to sit down.

“I hope you’ll excuse the mess,” he says. “This doubles as our lunch room and the assistants seem to be completely unable to keep horizontal surfaces free of clutter. And we can’t use magic, because it interferes with the traces of ancient spellwork on the artefacts.”

It’s so unlike Malfoy that, for a second, both Harry and Ron just stand there, gaping. Malfoy clears his throat and raises a single eyebrow, making him look much more like his prattish, schoolboy self. Harry manages to shake all his Malfoy-related thoughts and plunk down into one of the chairs, watching out of the corner of his eye as Ron does the same. Malfoy settles in a much more comfortable looking swivel chair on the other side of the table.

“Well then. What is it that you need my help with?”

“Hermione says you know about old magical objects,” Ron says.

Malfoy’s stupidly elegant eyebrow shoots up again.

“I think I need you to be a bit more specific than that,” he drawls, “There are literally hundreds of thousands of ancient magical artefacts.”

“It’s a dark artefact,” Harry says. “It’s supposed to be very powerful. Something that can steal people’s magic and store it.”

“Hmm. There are myths about artefacts with those properties, yes.”

Harry waits, but Malfoy doesn’t say anything else. He can feel his frustration rising and bubbling into anger. Malfoy being a stupid, smug wanker hasn’t changed just because he’s grown up to be less evil and more gorgeous. He scowls. Malfoy smirks at him.

“Well. Tell us what you know about it, then!” Ron leans forward impatiently.

“Easy there, Weasley,” Malfoy says mildly. “You know, it might help if you told me what exactly it is that you’re investigating. If you don’t, I can’t judge which informations might be important.”

Shit. The one condition they’ve agreed on before coming here is that they won’t give Malfoy any kind of information, just in case he decides to tip off his old Death Eater buddies. But he has to agree with Hermione. This new Malfoy doesn’t seem evil. Infuriating, yes, but not actively malicious.  
The silence stretches into something almost tangible. Tangible and bloody uncomfortable! He has to resist the urge to squirm in his uncomfortable seat.

“I know some of it might be confidential, and I’m not asking you to tell me anything like that,” Malfoy says at last. “But I need to know what precisely it is that you want my help with. Because I am going to help you, if I can, but I have a job here too. It might not mean a lot to you, but Stonehenge IV is probably the most important excavation in a decade, and I’m not leaving it to a couple of interns so I can go and be your research assistant. I’ve better things to do with my time than look up references for you two, at least unless you give me a good reason.”

Malfoy is glaring at them with his arms crossed in front of him, and Harry can’t help noticing that doing manual labour has been really good for him. He’s slender, but not as thin as he was at Hogwarts. His chest and arms are looking perfectly sculpted, even concealed under a thick black jumper. He also can’t exactly help agreeing that he has a point. They’re essentially asking him to be their research assistant, without offering him anything in return. Not even a basic level of trust. Ron is shifting in his chair beside him, undoubtedly about to say something less than nice.

“You’re right, Malfoy,” Harry says. He grits his teeth. “I’m sorry."

He offers Malfoy a basic rundown of the case, ignoring Ron’s scowl. He doesn’t mention anything about the New Dawn, or Bludger, though. He just tells him about the double murder, the missing book pages and the symbols found on both victims. Malfoy leans forward with his elbows on the table, and rests his no-longer-pointy chin on top of his folded hands, listening intently.

“The Chalice of Infinite Magic,” he says, once Harry has finished his explanation. His eyes are focussed somewhere in the middle distance, and he’s frowning slightly. 

“Yeah. At least we think so. Is it even real?”

“Yes.” Malfoy shakes his head and his gaze locks with Harry’s. “Yes, I think it’s real. The only problem is that it hasn’t been seen for centuries. The Dark Lord was looking for it, at some point. I don’t think he got very far.” He’s frowning again. “I think my father helped him investigate, actually.”

Malfoy stands up, the dismissal clear as day.

“I’ll see what I can find in my library and get back to you.”

Malfoy is still an arrogant prick, Harry thinks. But he can’t help admiring the way his shoulders stretch the fabric of his wooly jumper, when he turns his back on them and starts putting his boots back on.

“Thanks, Malfoy.” Ron says. “We’ll let you know if we have more information for you.”

“Please do, Weasley.” Malfoy opens the door and holds it for them, and they have to squeeze by him to step outside. Malfoy smells like fresh air and expensive shampoo, and Harry can’t help a tiny shiver running down his back. He turns back and belatedly shouts a goodbye, just as the door is closed with a snap.

“Still a wanker,” Ron mutters.

“Yeah…I think we need to borrow another hair from Gracie.”

“Urgh. Do we have to?” Ron’s hands instinctively come up to cover his chest.

“I can do it, if you don’t want to...”

“No, it’s fine. It’d be awkward if you didn’t remember what we talked about last time.”

Ron is walking a little more securely in his heels this time, and Harry has to walk quickly under the cloak to keep up with him. When they slip into the Beheaded Goblin, and Bludger smiles and pats the empty stool next to him in invitation. He even goes as far as buying Ron a pint. Ron bats long black eyelashes at him, tosses back a curtain of dark hair and dimples prettily. He even puts a hand on Bludger’s shoulder and leans in to whisper something in his ear. Bludger’s eyes immediately drop to Ron’s cleavage. Harry shudders and flattens himself against the wall, waiting for Ron to get some useful information so they can get out of here. It takes forever. Or at least long enough for Harry’s foot to start cramping. But, finally, one of Bludger’s mates gets up from his seat and says goodbye.

“Better get going, or the wife’ll start nagging,” he says.

“You’re still on for the meeting tonight, right?”

“Yeah. I can’t wait to see the cup! Kitty Tor, right? At eight?”

“Who the hell is Kitty Tor?” Harry asks, once they’re safely back behind their desks on Level Two.

“It’s not a person, it’s a rock formation,” Ron says. “On Dartmoor. Like the High Willhays?”

“Oh!” Harry fiddles with his tea cup. He suspects this is one of those things he should know, except his primary school years were spent trying to avoid getting beaten up by Dudley. Which made it hard to focus on actually learning things.

“Yeah. Savage'll want a full taskforce to handle something like this,” Ron says. He doesn’t sound too pleased about it.

“Do you think she’s going to pull us off the case?”

“Maybe. We’re still juniors. But she might let us tag along as backup.”

“Yeah. Or maybe we’ll continue with the murder case.” Harry pushes his chair back and gets up. “Only one way to find out.”

“No.”

“But Ma’am,” Harry resists the urge to rub a hand over his eyes. They’ve been discussing this for almost twenty minutes, and Savage isn’t listening to a word they’re saying. He tries again anyway.

“We’re experienced enough to deal with something like this on our own. It's not like they're real Death Eaters!”

Savage takes off her reading glasses and leans forward in her comfortable leather chair. She rests her arms on her desk and levels Harry with a look that makes it perfectly clear that she wants this conversation to end. Now.

“Look, Potter. I agree with you. But I have orders too.” She shoots Ron a look. “The Minister wants to make an impression this close to elections. It's important to him that the public knows that we're taking this seriously. Sending in a full team of Aurors will make the front page of the Prophet."

“He wants to make an impression?!?” Ron explodes. “That bloody fucking idiot wanker can stick his precious fucking election so far up his arse he'll be puking ballots!”

“Auror Weasley! You are out of order!” Savage says. She doesn’t particularly sound like she disagrees, though.

Harry steps in front of Ron and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Ron…calm down. He’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ron crosses his arms and kicks at the carpet. “I still wish I could tell Mum,” he mutters under his breath.

“Look, I know Percy is a class A idiot, but he’s still the Minister. He’s our boss,” Harry whispers.

Ron huffs, and Harry turns towards Savage.

“Can we at least be part of the team. I mean, a real part, not just for publicity?"

"I'll see what I can do." Savage gives him a small smile and rustles her papers to indicate that the conversation is over. Harry nods. His hand is already at the door handle, when Savage calls after them.

"Of course, no one can blame you if you just happen to be at the right place at the right time, while you scout out the premises..."

"Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am."

Dartmoor is too windy to rely on the Invisibility Cloak, but Harry decides to bring it along anyway. He folds it up and puts it in the inner pocket of his uniform cloak before lifting it off the hook on the wall and throwing it on. Ron pokes his head around the partition. Harry is relieved to see that he looks a lot calmer than he did when they left Savage’s office. The anger has been replaced with grim determination.

“Ready?” Ron asks.

“I think so. Got my wand, got my Cloak, got my emergency Portkey...”

“Okay. I’ve got the Portkey to get us there. It’s touch activated. Want to do the Disillusionment yourself, or swap?”

Harry considers it. Disillusionment charms aren’t Ron’s strongest point, but he’s a capable wizard, and besides, it’s easier to get the wand movements right if you’re not trying to aim at yourself. “Swap,” he says.

They cast the spells on each other and grab hold of the bottlecap that Ron has unwrapped from his handkerchief. The familiar tug behind the navel comes immediately, and when they land, they’re at the bottom of a steep grassy hill, strewn with rocks.

They’re early enough that there’s still a bit of weak twilight–enough to make out the general outline of their surroundings, but not enough to see any details. Ron nods at a square, hut-like building at the top of the hill, then turns and points at a large rock some ten metres away. Harry nods. They make their way there slowly, careful not to bend any shrubbery or disturb any birds or animals. Then they crouch down behind the rock and wait.

After about an hour, Harry gives in and casts a Warming Charm. At this point, the risk of being discovered because their teeth are clattering too loudly is probably greater than the risk of being discovered by a Sneakoscope or magic detection charm. And besides, there’s no sign of activity anywhere nearby.

They wait another half hour. It’s twenty past eight now, and the Warming Charm has worn off. Harry is about to suggest they go home, when Ron elbows him in the ribs and nods towards the stone hut.  
A weak light is flickering behind the window, and there are shadows moving in the darkness. The door opens and casts a beam of lamplight on two cloaked and masked figures. When the door closes again and the light disappears, the darkness suddenly feels impenetrable. Harry blinks and tries to adjust his eyes, but in the end he gives up and tugs on Ron’s sleeve instead.  
They move towards the hut at a slow, crouching jog. The adrenalin rush begins to override the cold, and he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. When they reach the window, Harry flattens himself against the wall, watching in the faint light from the window, as Ron’s translucent body melts into the stones next to him.

He leans forward and takes a look inside. He catalogues the room carefully. There’s only one door, and the window is too narrow to be used as an escape route. He can feel the anti-Apparition wards, like a lingering claustrophobia, pressing in on all his senses. It’s not the sensation that’s unpleasant. Not really. It’s the awareness of what it means that makes his skin crawl and his heart slam almost painfully against his ribs.

There are four people in the room, that he can see. Possibly more, but he doesn’t want to risk getting too close to the window. He fumbles for Ron and carefully presses four fingers into his arm, one at the time. They’re all wearing black, hooded robes, and Harry almost laughs out loud. What a fucking cliché!

There’s an elbow to his ribs, and when he looks over at Ron, he can just about make out the outline of his wand arm, and hear a whispered spell aimed at the windowpane. A tiny portion of the glass vanishes. Enough to feed a concealed Extendable Ear through. Ron hands him an end piece, and he quickly stuffs it into his own ear and sees Ron do the same. Then he turns his attention back to the people inside.

“... getting close,” the smallest of them is saying. Judging by the voice, it’s a young man.

“Yeah. But we need to be quick about it, don’t we? That Wright business was too messy. The Aurors are goin’ to come snoopin’.” And that’s got to be Bludger.

“Sorry, boss,” says the young one. He tugs on his tattered cloak sleeve, drawing it down to meet his stained glove.

“Yeah, yeah.” Bludger turns to the tall, slender figure to his right. “Did you bring it or what?”

“Yes. Of course I did.” He fumbles in the leather bag he’s carrying over his shoulder, and draws out a dented, brass goblet. Harry leans a bit closer to the window. If that’s the Chalice, it’s certainly nowhere near as impressive as he’d imagined.

“Is that it?”

“Yes,” the tall man drawls. "My research suggests that this is indeed the chalice we’ve been looking for.” Harry frowns. It’s hard to hear over the crackling on the Extendable Ear, but that voice... He leans a bit closer to the window, trying to get a look at the face under the hood. A dry twig of heather crunches under his foot.

"What was that?” Bludger’s wand goes up and he turns sharply towards the window. Harry holds his breath.

“Who’s there?” Bludger calls.

Oh, fuck! They can’t move. Not without being seen. And Harry is suddenly hyper aware of the wards pressing in on his magic. Confining him. Disapparating is not an option. They could try to fight, but there are four wands trained on them. He feels Ron reaching for the emergency Portkey in his robe pocket, and grab his arm. And then the tall man throws his head back and a flash of pale blond hair catches Harry’s attention.

Before he’s even fully aware what he’s doing, the door is blasted off its hinges.

“Malfoy!”

The only reply is a round of curses and hexes. The Death Eaters are not used to fighting, and Harry ducks and swerves easlily.

“Stupefy!”

“Prote-”

He hears Malfoy hit the ground with a satisfying thump. And then the anti-Apparition charms are lifted. Bludger’s mate grabs the young man in the tattered cloak by the arm and Disapparates.

“Fuck!” Ron shouts.

Harry whips around and sees Bludger turning to Disapparate, one hand grabbing the Chalice. Ron has seen it too, and is diving for it. He grabs at the Chalice, but only manages to graze it with his fingertips. There’s a blinding light, the echo of a laugh, a pop of Disapparition and then nothing.

They stand there for a few seconds, just looking at each other and catching their breath. Then Harry casts a set of standard crime scene wards on the hut, while Ron checks for hidden persons behind the few pieces of furniture. He can feel the relieved smile spreading on his face, and see it mirrored in Ron’s wide grin.

“Bloody hell, Harry!” Ron chuckles. ”Savage is going to bite your head off!” He walks over to the stunned figure on the floor. “Help me turn him over!”

Harry grabs Malfoy’s shoulder and pulls, turning him over and looking at… oh bloody fucking hell!

“Smith?”

Livid blue eyes are staring back at him from the eerily still face of Zacharias Smith. He’s sporting a bruise on one cheek from the fall, and a head of carefully spiked almost white highlights. Ron is making a choked off sound behind him. It sounds a lot like a snort of laughter, but Harry isn’t really listening. He’s too busy being mortified.

“Harry! Harry?” Ron nudges him with an elbow.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“Let’s get this one back for questioning.” Ron nods at Smith. “Might not be the one you were thinking it was, but he’s still a shitty little coward!” He grabs his wand and conjures a length of rope. Except nothing happens.

“What the hell?”

Ron tries again. Nothing. He stares at his wand, completely at a loss, and Harry’s heart starts racing. The white light when Ron grabbed the cup and Bludger’s laugh just before he disapparated... He looks down. There’s a malicious glint in Smith’s eyes now. Fucking hell!

“Right… Let’s grab the Portkey instead. We’ll sort this back at the Ministry.”

“What about him?” Ron nods at Smith.

“The wards are strong enough. We’ll send someone back for him. Come on mate!”

“Yeah…” Ron sounds completely lost.

Harry slings an arm around Ron’s shoulder and activates the Portkey.

The interview room feels even smaller than usual with Smith glaring at him from the chair. Harry resists the urge to rub at his eyes. Instead, he stands up and paces the few steps from wall to wall. He really doesn't want to be here. He wants to go and see how Ron is. As far as he's concerned, Smith can rot away in a holding cell until tomorrow. He glances at the clock on the wall behind Smith. It's been almost half an hour. Someone will be here with the Veritaserum soon, and then he'll be able to get out of here and check up on Ron.

Right on cue, Officer Davies bursts through the door with a vial in one hand and the signed permit in the other. Harry grins.

"Thank you, Officer Davies. Would you mind staying while I conduct the interview?"

"Not at all, Auror Potter."

"Thank you." Harry turns to Smith and lays the signed permit in front of him on the table. "Zacharias Smith, this is a signed permit from the Under Secretary to the Minister for Magic. It authorises me to administer up to ten drops of Veritaserum without your consent. You do have the option to agree to take the potion voluntarily."

Smith glares.

"The Wizengamot may take it into account, if you agree to take the potion voluntarily."

Smith sends him another disgusted glare. The he nods sullenly. When Davies approaches with the vial, he opens his mouth enough that ten drops of the potion can be put on his tongue.

"Let's try this again, then," Harry says. "Tell me everything you know about the Chalice of Infinite Magic."

"The Chalice takes the magic from anyone who touches it. And, if you perform the right rituals, it can be set to take magic from people in a certain location or with a certain magical signature. Like Mudbloods." Smith smirks. "And I know that since you don't have the Chalice, and you have no clue how to release the magic, Weasley is no more than a squib."

Harry fights against the need to punch Smith in the mouth. It won't do anything to help Ron, and Auror brutality is exactly the excuse Smith needs to get out of this.

"Right. Let's talk about the group of people who call themselves the New Dawn."

Harry checks that Rose is sleeping, and tiptoes back to the sofa. He itches to pour himself a healthy dram, but he has fucked up badly enough as it is. Drinking while babysitting is taking it one step too far, even for him, and even if these last days have been a lot more hectic than usual. How long has Ron been at St Mungo’s now? He ticks the days off on his fingers. It’s Tuesday, so... five days! Has it really been almost a week?  
Interrogating Smith turned out to be more or less a waste of time. Harry shudders at the memory of the fanatic glint in Smith’s eyes. The little shit hadn't managed to give him much to go on; only a couple of first names of group members, and some locations where they met. But his ramblings about pure-bloods taking over the world, and putting Muggle-borns in their rightful place had sounded too much like something Harry’s heard before, through ears that weren’t quite his own.

Fucking hell! He really needs that Firewhiskey. Or a swift memory charm. Perhaps Hermione will help him. She's pretty good at Oblivating people. No. She probably wouldn't react too well to that suggestion, even if he was insensitive enough to make it.

He yawns widely, since there's no one here to see him anyway. He should probably make a pot of tea and wait for Hermione to get back from the hospital, but his eyes are slipping shut on their own, and the sofa in front of the fireplace is really comfortable.

He wakes up a while later, half hard and restless from a dream he can’t quite remember. All he can recall is flashes of white blond hair and broad shoulders. He wills the erection away. He’s been thinking far too much about Malfoy since he and Ron went to Stonehenge. Bloody Malfoy and his stupid ability to get under his skin.

The Floo flashes, and Hermione steps out of the fireplace. She looks ten years older than she did a week ago. There are dark smudges under her eyes, and her hair has escaped from her usually neat bun and is framing her face in a frizzy mess of curls, but she still manages a small smile when she catches sight of him.

“Is she sleeping?” she whispers.

“Yeah. She fell asleep while I read to her. She insisted that Ron always reads her at least three bedtime stories.”

“Ha! He usually falls asleep before she does, when he puts her to bed.”

“How is he?”

“Frustrated. Other than that, there’s no change.” She sinks into the armchair next to the fire. Her eyes are fixed somewhere in the middle distance, and Harry’s heart sinks.

“What does the Healer say?”

“The healers don’t know what to think. They’ve moved him from the General Ward to the Curse Unit.” Her voice trembles, and Harry reaches out and pulls her into a tight hug, wishing he could keep it all away from her by hiding her in his arms.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he says into her hair.

“S’ not your fault.”

It is his fault. But she doesn’t need his guilt trip right now, so he bites down on his answer, and just holds her a little tighter. She squeezes him back for a moment, and lets go.

“I’m going to talk to Draco tomorrow. Ron said he’d told you he might be able to find out more about the cup. Do you want to come?”

Fuck. He really doesn’t want to talk to Malfoy. He especially doesn’t want to talk to him about how Ron lost his magic because Harry thought Malfoy was still a Death Eater.

“Of course I'll go with you."

The noise of the morning traffic covers the sound of Apparition as Harry and Hermione spin into existence in a secluded spot behind a hedge in Bloomsbury Square Gardens. Hermione rummages in her beaded bag and pulls out a scrap of parchment, which she thrusts at him.

“Read this. The building is covered in all sorts of privacy and concealment charms. You should be able to see it when we get closer.”

Harry casts a glance at the parchment. The Magical Branch of the British Museum is located on the lawn to the right of the main entrance, it says in a neat cursive that he vaguely remembers from Malfoy’s hate-notes in school.

Hermione uses her wand to spell the wrinkles out of her skirt, tucks her bag under her arm and starts walking towards the Museum.

The street is busy at this time of the morning, but the area in front of the Museum is still blessedly free of tour groups and school children. As they walk towards the lawn, the air in front of them shimmers like a mirage and dissolves into a building. Hermione presses her wand against the door, and it opens. Harry hurries to do the same.

The Magical Branch of the Museum is nowhere near as grand as its Muggle counterpart. The entrance hall is narrow and stuffy, with dark wooden panels and no windows. An ancient wizard in a pointy hat is snoozing in a chair behind a desk in the corner. There’s a sign on the desk that simply reads Enquiries. Hermione walks up to the desk and politely clears her throat. The old wizard’s head snaps up, and he blinks at them owlishly.

“Excuse me. We’re here to see one of your curators. Draco Malfoy. We have an appointment.”

“An appointment?” the old wizard squeaks.

“Yes. With Draco Malfoy. I’m Hermione Granger. I work with him at Stonehenge.”

The old man reaches for a dusty protocol, and uses a huge magnifying glass to search for her name. Apparently he finds what he’s looking for, and slams the book closed with a thump and a cloud of dust.

“Very well then, Ms. Granger.” He slowly gets to his feet and comes around the desk. “If you’d be so kind as to follow me.”

Hermione sends Harry a small smile, and follows the old man down the corridor. Harry hurries to catch up.

Malfoy’s office is at the very end of the corridor. The door is open, and the room beyond is bathed in pale winter sunlight.

“You can wait in here. He will be with you shortly.” He turns and shuffles back down the corridor.

Harry blinks at the sudden shift from the darkness of the corridor, and looks around. The lighting is not the only thing that sets this room apart from the rest of the building. One wall is made up entirely of gleaming white bookshelves stuffed with titles that Harry doesn't quite understand. Practical Arithmancy in Causewayed Enclosures is a huge leather bound tome, leaning against a smaller one titled Neolithic Magic–A Preliminary Guide. A pile of scrolls is propped in a corner next to the books. One of the tags reads My notes on the artefacts associated with Roman fertility rites. Harry feels his cheeks flush red, and quickly turns away from Hermione’s too-clever eyes. He comes face to face with Malfoy’s desk in front of the window. A sleek Muggle computer is pushed off to one side, contrasting with a few scrolls of parchment and a simple quill and inkwell. There are also a few shards of pottery in what looks suspiciously like Ron’s conjured evidence bags. Harry runs his finger over one of them. A pang of guilt goes through him at the thought of Ron conjuring those bags. Such a casual display of magic, random and unremarkable in every way, until the ability was suddenly taken away.

”Those artefacts are more than four thousand years old, Potter, and the only thing holding them together is the charms I put on the bag. Don’t damage them.”

Harry quickly snatches his hand back. Malfoy is standing in the doorway, looking distractingly different from his old self. Harry suspects he should have anticipated it after yesterday, but this Malfoy, with his small smile, windswept hair, sturdy khaki trousers and black, woolly turtleneck will take some time to get used to.

“Draco!” Hermione sounds exactly like she used to, when she reprimanded Harry and Ron back at school, and Harry can’t help smirking.

“How’s your husband?” Draco asks. He actually sounds like he cares, if not about Ron, then about Hermione.

“He’s healthy, physically, but there’s no sign of his magic returning,” Hermione replies. The wobble in her voice is almost inaudible, especially to someone who doesn’t know her well.

“I’m so sorry.” Malfoy gently puts a consoling hand on her shoulder. Harry has to make an effort to keep from gaping at them. Who is this new Malfoy?

He must have made some sort of noise, because Malfoy snatches his hand away as of he’s been burned and takes a self conscious step back.

“You mentioned that you might be able to find some more information on the Chalice?”

Malfoy seems almost relieved by his question.

“Yes. I haven’t been able to do much, but I did find a few texts. And I still have a possible source left that I haven’t spoken to yet. Please, have a seat, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Malfoy gestures to a comfortable looking pair of armchairs in front of the fireplace.

“I think I’ll leave the detective work to you, Harry,” Hermione says. “I promised Ron I’d come and see him as soon as I brought you here.” She gives him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, and leaves. Harry suddenly feels exposed. Sitting in a comfortable chair in front of the fire and having a civil conversation with Malfoy seems like one of the strangest situations he has ever found himself in. He flounders for something to say for what seems like minutes after Hermione has closed the door behind her.

In the end, it’s Malfoy who breaks the awkward silence.

“Well, as I said, I haven’t found much yet. There are a few hints in some of my books, but they’re vague, and there’s no answer to the most important question.”

“What’s the most important question?” Harry asks. Malfoy sends him a look of pure disbelief.

“Well, given that your best friend is more or less a Squib at the moment, I’d think the most important question is how to get his magic back.”

Oh. Fucking Malfoy and his sharp tongue.

“Y-yes. Of course it is. I just wasn’t sure we had the same priorities.”

Harry follows Malfoys movements as he stands up and paces in front of the fireplace.

“Look, Potter, I might as well say this now. I’m Hermione’s friend now. I know that’s probably not easy to get used to, but believe it or not, I consider myself a fairly decent friend. Therefore, I care about what happens to her husband.”

Malfoy stops in front of Harry and just stands there, looking at him. Harry doesn’t really know what to do. Those grey eyes are so intense, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen that particular expression in them before. There’s plenty of pride there, but also a hint of something else. Hurt? Apprehension? Worry? It’s hard to tell, but he looks like he actually cares if Harry believes him.

“I want to help you,” Malfoy says. “But it won’t be without personal consequence to do so. I need to know if I can trust you to keep a secret, and I need to know that you trust me to have Hermione’s best interests at heart. If you still don’t believe that I can be trusted with information, then it’s simply not worth it to me. I won’t risk it.”

Fuck! He hadn’t expected Malfoy of all people to be that candid. Of course he can keep a secret–if he wants to. But does he? So far, he has had no reason not to trust Malfoy. Hermione is usually an excellent judge of character, and she seems to get along with him. On the other hand… this is Malfoy.

“I… Yes. Yes, I trust you with the information. And of course I can keep a secret! As long as it’s not something illegal. I don’t particularly want to be fired,” he adds.

Malfoy’s surprise only shows for a fraction of a second. Then he schools his features back into a neutral expression and nods.

“That’s good enough for me. I need to go and see Father.”

“Your father? But he’s in Azkaban!” Harry blurts, and immediately wants to kick himself. Hard. Malfoy bloody well knows that his own father is in prison. Behaving like a bumbling idiot probably won’t exactly make him any more cooperative.

“Yes, Potter. He is. He’s also the one who did research on the Chalice when the Dark Lord was looking for it. And some of the notes he left in his books suggest that he knows how to free the magic and transfer it back, once the chalice has taken it. It’ll probably take a few weeks to organise a visit, though. Unless I’m accompanying an Auror who’s conducting an investigation...”

Getting into Azkaban is almost as difficult as getting out, Harry thinks. In theory, he has access because of his job, but, in reality, he still has to get Savage’s permission, in writing, which means slaving for hours over how to word the scroll. When he finally gets summoned to her office, just before tea time, he still has to spend almost fifteen minutes convincing her that it’s a good idea. And then he has to sign a three foot long scroll of parchment detailing everything about the visit, and wait for everything to be confirmed with the prison guards. Insisting on bringing someone along doesn’t exactly help. Especially when that someone’s name is Draco Malfoy.

It’s almost noon the next day, when they finally find themselves huddling under cloaks and Impervious Charms in a tiny boat on the North Sea. The forbidding rock that houses Azkaban looms on the horizon, and, as they get closer, the air seems to get even more icy, as if the Dementors are still here, lurking in the low, dark clouds that cover the island. Malfoy seems to sink even further into his warm cloak, his shoulders coming up around his ears, and his face almost as pale and grim as Harry remembers it from sixth year.

The boat bumps gently against a tiny sliver of sandy coastline hidden by the cliffs. There’s nothing here except a wooden post, overgrown with slimy seaweed, and a rough path leading further inland. Malfoy fumbles a little with the rope, but, in the end, he manages to get the boat tied securely to the post. Harry turns toward the path, but Malfoy doesn’t follow him.

“Do you think we should ward it?”

“The boat?”

“Yes. You know… just in case…”

Harry doesn’t really know, but his imagination immediately suggests a range of scenarios, one more scary than the other. In case someone breaks out of prison and takes their boat. In case there’s a storm coming. In case someone tries to sabotage it, to prevent them from leaving. This place is making him paranoid.

“Yes. We probably should. In case.” He draws his wand and casts a spell that’ll make the boat stay in place unless one of them actually touches it. Malfoy layers his own complicated charm on top of Harry’s before he turns his collar up against the rain and makes his way toward the forbidding building looming in the distance.

Three guards are waiting for them at the gate. Life in Azkaban is hard, even if you’re only there for an eight hour shift. The men look hardened and rough. They swipe Harry with a casual charm and when they don’t find anything suspicious, he’s allowed to step through. He takes a few steps towards the building, before he realises that Malfoy isn’t with him, and turns back. Malfoy is standing with his front against a wall, his palms resting on the bricks, and his his feet apart. Two guards are searching him manually, padding at his pockets and manhandling him into whichever position will give them better access. A third guard is casting a barrage of detection charms on him. Malfoy’s mouth is a grim line, and there are two angry red spots on his cheeks. It’s several minutes before they’re satisfied that Malfoy doesn’t pose a threat and let him pass the gate.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Auror Potter,” one of the guards says.

How the fuck is he supposed to answer that? He mutters something unintelligible and hopes that neither Malfoy or the guards will take offence. They need the guards to let them in, after all.

They are handed an old bottle cap and a used bus ticket, before they’re allowed to enter the building.

“Your emergency Portkeys. Put them in your pockets, and I’ll activate them for you. If you touch them, you’ll be transported to a secure room, and we’ll come and get you. Please keep them hidden from view at all times,” the guard instructs. “If you’ll please come with me, I’ll let you into the cellblock. The prisoner you’re interested in has been moved to the interview room at the end of the hall. It’s soundproof.” He smirks at Harry. “To ensure privacy.” 

Malfoy’s skin is even paler than usual, and his jaw is clenched tight. Harry has a sudden urge to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder or back. But instead he matches his steps to Malfoy’s, trying to present a united front towards both the guards and the prisoners.

Their steps echo off the stone walls as they walk down a narrow hallway lined with anonymous wooden doors. Each door has a number painted on it and a tiny window covered with thick iron bars. He’d expected it to be loud, but the sound of their boots against the flagstone is the only sound there is to be heard. He glances at the barred windows, but no one seems to react to their presence at all. The guard takes out a key and unlocks the slightly wider, numberless door at the end of the corridor.

“I’ll lock this behind you,” he says. “When you’re done, just use the Portkeys.”

The heavy door creaks open, and then slams behind them. Harry looks up, and there he is, Lucius Malfoy, wearing the same tattered, dirty robes he had on when he was taken into custody after the Battle of Hogwarts, and the same haughty sneer. He’s sitting on a wooden stool, and his hands and feet are chained to iron rings in the floor. By his posture, he might as well be sitting on a throne.

“Draco.”

Harry sees the split second of emotions flickering across Draco’s face, before he schools it into a mask of indifference. Lucius doesn’t move a single muscle.

“Father.” Draco offers him a small nod, and takes a seat in one of the two comfortable chairs set out for them.

Harry watches as he folds one slim leg over the other, and his trousers ride up to reveal a sliver of lightly tanned skin, contrasting with the black dragonhide of his boots. He tears his gaze away, but doesn’t like the knowing gleam in Lucius’ eyes at all.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Draco? I see you’ve brought someone along? Your latest boytoy?”

For a second, Harry’s mind goes completely blank. Boytoy?

“Potter and I are working together.”

Apparently, Malfoy’s still not pleased to disappoint his father, even after all this time.

“I see.” He’s always imagined that someone who’s been in Azkaban for a long time would sound hoarse and broken. But Lucius doesn’t sound like someone who has been rotting away in a prison cell for years. His voice is as smooth and perfectly modulated as ever. He tilts his head a little, and stares at Harry like he’s a particularly unpleasant potions ingredient. “And exactly what kind of… favour is it that you’re hoping my son will provide you, Mr Potter?”

The blush starts below his collar, but he can feel the heat creeping onto his face. What is it about these Malfoys that make them get under his skin like this? He grits his teeth.

“I hope that he’ll be able to help me solve a murder case involving an ancient artefact,” he bites out.

Lucius is quiet for a few seconds. "Why would you need my help with that, Mr Potter? Draco is a leading expert on ancient artefacts, is he not? And I imagine you have the collective resources of the Ministry at your disposal, by virtue of your... previous accomplishments.” He shrugs, and the motion makes the heavy iron chains that bind his wrists rattle. Even Lucius himself seems surprised by the sound. “No matter what the reason is, I can't help you unless you are quite a bit more specific." He concludes.

Harry snorts. Like father, like son.

"Potter and I were hoping you'd tell us about the Chalice you used to research."

"Ah! That makes more sense. But I still fail to see how I would benefit from telling you what I know. Assuming that I do know anything that would prove useful. Which is far from certain.”

Of course. Lucius Malfoy doesn’t do favours for anyone, not even his own son. When he chances a quick glance, Draco looks paler than before, and he’c clenching his jaw so hard the muscle is bouncing. That look is a bit too familiar, he realises. An image of a flooded bathroom, with water being tinted red by blood, is flashing through his mind in a split second. He takes a deep breath, intending to answer Lucius’ question, but before he can say anything, there’s a hand on his arm. He looks down in disbelief, and sees Draco’s fingers rest on his sleeve. The heat from his touch makes his skin tingle.

“This is what’s in it for you, Father,” Draco says. His voice is steady, but his tone is clipped, and his accent is sharper than ever before. “I have been doing my very best to rebuild this family’s name and reputation, but my efforts are thwarted every time someone reminds the public that the head of the family is rotting away in prison. Now, if it were to become public knowledge that you’d assisted Harry Potter with a very high profile case, then my efforts might finally start paying off.”

The way father and son stare at each other is so intense, he has to fight the urge to squirm or fidget with the tiny buttons on his sleeve. Finally, Lucius gives a minute nod.

“Very well then. I’ll give you my memory of the Chalice.”

Draco draws his wand and points it at his father’s temple. The memory is thin and immaterial, only a wispy curl of smoke, but it’s there. Harry holds out the vial he’s kept in his pocket, and Draco slips the memory inside.

“Thank you, Father,” he says. “We’ll be sure to let the Ministry know about your cooperation.”

Lucius shakes his head.

“It’s a moot point. Due to your undignified lifestyle choices, the Malfoy line is going to end with you.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” Draco says. All emotion is gone from his voice,like he has given up on his father all together. Harry doesn’t really blame him after Lucius’ words, but there’s still something unpleasant twisting in his guts. Like he’s an intruder, witnessing a very private moment. The moment where a father and a son finally realise that they’re not family in anything but name.

“Are you okay?”

Malfoy bends over with his head low and his hands resting on his knees and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths.

“Don’t worry about me, Potter. I’ll be perfectly fine. It might be best if I calm down a bit before I go home, though. It wouldn’t be fair to Mother if she saw me this unsettled...”

Harry watches as Malfoy straightens up, but it’s obvious that he’s still a bit wobbly. He rests a hand on the nearest lamppost and turns his face into the wind.

“Come on. I’ll Apparate us.”

“Thank you, but there’s no need, Potter. I’ll just stand here for a moment and clear my head, and I’ll be fine.”

Malfoy doesn’t look like he’ll be fine. He looks more like he’ll crumble into a heap, if he’s left alone. Is that what he wants? To be left alone so Harry won’t see him falling apart? So no one sees him falling apart?  
Oh, fuck it! Fuck Malfoy and his stiff upper lip and ramrod posture! No one deserves to be alone after practically being disowned.

“Come on, Malfoy. There’s a pub in the next town over. Let me at least apparate you there and buy you a glass of Ogden’s Old. You look like you could use it.”

Malfoy considers him through tired eyes for a few seconds. Then he nods.

"Right. Do your good deed for the day, Saint Potter." He holds out his arm, and Harry grabs it. Even through the wooly fabric, the contact makes his skin tingle. He closes his eyes and focuses on the image of the small pub.

When he opens his eyes again, he is standing in the alley next to the Bearded Witch. Malfoy is leaning heavily against his shoulder, but only for a moment. As soon as he regains his balance, he takes a step to the side. He looks at the peeling paint on the creaky old sign over the door, and drops his eyes to his sleeve, brushing away invisible creases.

“Thank you, Potter.” It’s nothing but a mumble, but it’s enough to make Harry’s lips twitch up into a tiny smile. He hurriedly hides it in a cough.

“No problem, Malfoy. Come on. I’ll get the first round.”

The bar is almost empty. There’s an old witch behind the bar, and two portly wizards discussing their gardens. When they enter, all eyes turn to them, and Harry momentarily regrets that he didn’t transfigure his Auror robes into something less conspicuous before they came in. But, just as quickly, everyone turns back to their own drinks and conversations. Apparently, this is a mind your own business sort of place. He only realises how tense he’s been when he feels his shoulders drop in relief.

They order their drinks and find a quiet table in a corner.

“Cheers, Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

The Firewhiskey burns its way through his system, chasing away the lingering cold and leaving a pleasant buzz in its place. He watches as Malfoy takes a sip, following the bob of his throat as he swallows. Malfoy is still looking a bit pinched, but the Firewhiskey is doing its job, bringing a flush to his cheeks and erasing the frown he’s been wearing since they left Azkaban. Or since they arrived there, actually. Grey eyes meet Harry’s gaze, and Malfoy clears his throat and squares his shoulders.

“Thank you for Apparating me. I must admit, this hasn’t been the easiest morning I’ve ever had.” Malfoy coughs and takes another sip of whiskey. “In all honesty, I’d probably have splinched myself.”

He should probably say something to that. Something deep enough to acknowledge what Malfoy’s shared, but subtle enough that he won’t be embarrassed. But the words just won’t come.

“I’m glad you were there. Erm…” He can feel the blush creep up his neck and warm his face. “I mean, I wouldn’t have been able to get the information at all if I’d been on my own.”

“Yes, well. To be honest, I’m not so sure about that. It seems my presence was more of a provocation than I’d expected.”

“Yeah. About that... I… I wanted to apologise for bringing you along in the first place. That wasn’t a fair position to put you in.”

“What? No!” The look in Malfoy’s eyes is more sincere than Harry has ever seen. There’s no calculation left on his face. Perhaps it’s the Firewhiskey, or just plain exhaustion. “I wanted to be there, and Fath- my father… I suspected that he’d behave like that. It was unpleasant, but it wasn’t really a surprise.” He coughs. “About what he insinuated… I hope you’re not going to spread the word. My friends know… but I like to keep private matters private.”

Is that what Malfoy’s worried about? Being outed?

“Don’t worry. I’ve had worse. And from people whose opinions means more to me.” He closes his eyes for a moment letting the memories flash by. Molly, asking him if he isn’t at least bisexual, and choking on the word, because it’s probably the first time she’s ever said it out loud. And Hermione, his best friend, reminding him that all he’s ever wanted is a normal life. As if that’s still not what he wants. As if what he had with Philippe, and what he has now is abnormal somehow. He opens his eyes and smiles at Malfoy. “Besides, who am I to complain, when someone insinuates that I’m having a relationship with a good looking bloke?”

Malfoy chokes on his Firewhiskey, and Harry’s smile turns into a full blown grin that he hides in his drink. He drains his glass and smirks at Malfoy over the rim of his empty tumbler.

“Are you getting the next round, or are you just going to sit there and splutter?”

Malfoy throws him a half hearted glare, and walks to the bar. Harry can’t help noticing a subtle sway in his hips that wasn’t there before.

Malfoy rests his elbow on the table and props his hand against his chin. Harry’s eyes are drawn to the way his long, slender fingers wrap against the smooth skin on his jaw. He has a sudden urge to lean in and kiss him, to taste the skin and discover if Malfoy is really as clean shaven as he looks, or if there is a hint of invisible, blond stubble against his lips. Fuck no! Thinking about kissing Malfoy is bad. Very bad! He’s only had the two drinks, but it feels like a lot more. His eyes drift back to Malfoy’s face. He’s smiling, Harry realises. And his mouth looks a lot nicer when he’s not sneering. Pretty and soft, with lips that are just full enough to be kissable, but not pouty enough to be girly.

“Potter?”

Malfoy’s pretty lips are forming the word, and Harry realises he must have been a lot less subtle than he intended. Fuck!

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to - yeah. I think I’ve had enough Firewhiskey.”

Malfoy’s lips curl up into a smile, and Harry realises that he hasn’t actually stopped staring at them.

“Yes, I think you have. Besides, we should probably go back to London if we want to start following up on those leads.”

“I don’t think Apparating is a good idea right now,” Harry mumbles.

“I’ll ask if we can use the Floo.” Malfoy steps over to talk to the old witch behind the bar, and leaves Harry to the whirlwind of embarrassment and fatigue and pure want that is turning in his stomach. This is not good. This is not good for so many reasons! He takes a deep breath and wills himself to calm down. He’s revealed too much already. Enough that working with Malfoy is going to be pure agony. And he does still have to work with Malfoy if he wants to solve this case. Ron probably isn’t going to be able to do much without his magic. The churning in his stomach suddenly becomes a lot more physical, when he thinks about Ron, surrounded by healers, looking pale and determined and gritting his teeth, but unable to levitate a feather. Yeah. Apparating is definitely a bad idea right now.

"Come on, then. We can use the Floo in here," Malfoy says. He's leaning against the doorframe next to the bar, and Harry jumps to his feet and hurries after him, without meeting his eyes.

The small back room reminds him uncomfortably of Mrs. Figgs' sitting room back at Privet Drive. It's run down and smells of dust and cats.

“Here. Take this.” Malfoy hands him a small vial.

“What’s that?”

“Sobriety potion. The old hag sold it from behind the bar. Cost me a bloody fortune.”

Harry watches as Malfoy steps onto the yellow-brown hearth rug, and a dust cloud emerges. He pokes it again with his shoe, and Harry can't help chuckling at the look of horror struck fascination on his face. He's suddenly glad their drinks were strong enough to disinfect their glasses slightly. He eyes the vial in his hand. It looks clean enough… He wipes the neck of it on his sleeve before drinking.

"Where to?" Malfoy asks.

Harry considers it. He’d sent a message to Savage before Apparating them to the Bearded Witch, but he should probably check in to see if Smith has started talking. And they need to view the memory Lucius gave them. On the other hand, he‘d promised Hermione to stop by as soon as he's back, and he wants her to view the memory with them.

“St. Mungo’s–but I’ll be fine to go on my own, if you want to go home, or to your office or somewhere else. Erm. I mean... I can Floo you after I check in with Ron.”

“That sounds like a reasonable plan. I should stop by the Manor and let Mother know about our trip. You should be able to reach me there.” The look he gives Harry is half challenge, half resignation. “The password for the Floo wards is ‘Martin Miggs’.”

Harry is determined not to laugh, but he can feel the chuckles press up through his throat, and has to hide them in a very unconvincing cough.

“The Mad Muggle?!? I suppose it’s best if I don’t ask.” he says, once he’s regained a bit of control.

A small smile is playing on Malfoy’s lips. He nods sagely.

“That would probably be for the best. Goodbye, Potter.”

He grabs a handful of Floo powder and is gone in a shower of sparks, before Harry has the time to answer. “Bye,” he mumbles to the brightly glowing embers. Then he takes his own handful of powder, steps into the fire and calls out his destination.

He’s barely landed in the huge fireplace in the reception, before the smell of hospital permeates the air and intensifies his post-Floo nausea. He’s hated the smell ever since the end of the war. It reminds him of too many visits at the bedsides of friends and Order members; some had made it out of here, and some hadn’t.

He looks around and finds the room empty, except for a small knot of healers in their lime green robes, who are having a conversation that involves lots of whispering and pointing at a clip board, and a bored looking young wizard behind the reception desk. He walks over, and has to clear his throat several times, before the young man looks up from his magazine.

“May I help you?” he drones, without looking at Harry.

“I’m here to see Auror Weasley. He was in the Magical Emergencies and Disasters ward, but I think he’s been moved.”

The young man looks up at Harry for the first time, curiosity written all over his face. Harry can tell exactly when he is recognised.

“Auror Potter! Just a moment, Sir. I’ll check for you!” He casts a charm on the scroll of parchment in front of him, and a line is highlighted by a blue glow. “Auror Weasley has been moved to the Spell Damage ward, Sir. Room 502. Would you like me to call for someone to escort you there?”

“No thanks. I know the way.” The healers have stopped whispering to stare at him. He turns and starts making his way up the far too familiar flight of stairs, wishing that he had been thinking far enough ahead to bring his invisibility cloak.

He raps on the door to Ron’s room, and waits for the muffled invitation, before he enters. Ron is sitting up in bed, wearing a pair of purple pyjamas with small snitches on them. Harry remembers his face, when he had seen him open the gag gift from George. That had been the first Christmas Harry had spent at Ron and Hermione’s after they’d moved into their cottage, and the first Christmas after the war that George’s smile had reached his eyes.

“Harry!” Ron’s eyes widen comically, when Harry steps closer. “Bloody hell, mate! You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” He checks that he’s closed the door behind him. “A trip to Azkaban and a conversation with Lucius Malfoy will do that. But I didn’t come here to talk about me.”

Ron slumps down in the bed and picks at the hem of his pyjama top.

“Yeah. I figured. There’s not much to talk about, really. They still can’t find anything wrong with me, physically. I’m healthy as a hippogriff, except that I’m a Squib.”

Harry’s stomach lurches violently. What the fuck do you say to something like that? He’s never been good with words, when it comes to feelings, and neither has Ron. But this is important. He needs to make Ron understand how sorry he is. He scrubs a hand through his hair and over his face, wishing that he could wipe the fatigue away.

“I… Look, I know I’ve said it before, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in there like that. It was such a stupid mistake to make.”

Ron looks at him like he’s grown an extra head.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Barging into the shed… Thinking that Smith was Malfoy...” Harry trails off. What does Ron think he’s talking about? Does he even remember what happened?

Ron throws the blanket aside and swings his purple clad legs over the side of the bed. Before Harry knows what’s happening, Ron is standing in front of him, with his hands on his shoulders. His face is completely blank, but his eyes are blue fire.

“Listen here, Harry! You do not get to blame yourself for this. I’m a bloody Auror. I know how to handle cursed objects, and touching them with my bare hands is not the way to do it. So get this through your thick skull once and for all, because I’m getting sick of repeating myself. This. Is. Not. Your. Fault!” He emphasises the last few words with none too gentle pushes on Harry’s shoulders, making him shake back and forth. There’s an odd buzzing in his ears, and Ron shoves him into the hard visitors’ chair before he climbs back into the bed and flings the blanket over his legs with a huff. They stare at eachother for a while. Rons eyes are completely sincere, as he meets Harry’s baffled look. He really believes what he’s just said. Harry doesn’t. But he’s got brains enough to keep that to himself.

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters.

“Brilliant! Now, tell me what’s going on with the case. You went to Azkaban. Did you go alone?” A haunted looks crosses Ron’s face. “Wait! They didn’t partner you with someone else already, did they? Because that’s just bollocks! I’ve only been gone for a week!”

“No. No they didn’t, and I didn’t go alone either. Malfoy went with me.“

Ron looks like he’s about to jump out of bed and shake Harry again.

“Malfoy? You went to Azkaban to have a cozy chat with a Death Eater, and you brought Malfoy along as backup? Bloody hell, Harry! I need to get out of here before you get yourself killed. Or kicked off the force.”

“Savage signed off on it,” Harry says. He doesn’t know where the odd need to defend Malfoy comes from, but he finds himself wanting to convince Ron that Malfoy isn’t that bad. “Besides, I’m actually glad I brought him. He was the one who persuaded his father to give up the memory.”

Ron shakes his head, but there’s no real malice there. “You’re as bad as Hermione!”

“Probably…” He smiles, relieved at the change of topic. “Where is Hermione? I’d like her to view the memory.”

“She went back to work.” Ron grins. “She was a bit flustered. She was ranting about Percy's plan to put us in the front line for publicity purposes, and mum overheard.”

“Poor Hermione!”

“No, poor Percy, when mum gets a hold of him! You know how worried she’s been since I ended up in here, and now she’s blaming him.” Ron smirks, and Harry can’t help return it. The tension’s gone, and they move onto discuss if the crap hospital food is worse than the crap food in the ministry cafeteria, and whether Percy’s going to be even more of an arse if he’s reelected or if it’ll make him relax just a fraction.

“If you want to view the memory today, you should probably get back to the ministry. Hermione’s leaving early to pick up Rose,” Ron says.

“Right. I’ll do that… I’ll stop by tomorrow, yeah?”

Ron’s good mood disappears. “Sure…”

“I’ll smuggle you some fish and chips. And a bar of Honeydukes chocolate.”

“You’re a good mate, Harry.”

Harry sends Ron a smile that’s only a little bit forced. “Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.”

The DMLE is quiet when Harry steps out of the lift and makes his way down the hall to his cubicle. Donovan sneers at him from his usual place slouched against the wall next to the small tea kitchen.

“How’s Weasley?”

Harry does his best to keep his face neutral. The question is innocent enough, after all. If you don’t know Donovan, that is.

“Fine. He says he’ll be ready to go home soon.”

“Yeah...” Donovan lifts his cup to take a sip, and Harry moves away, but he still hears the muttered “he’ll be staying home for a really fucking long time, if he’s still a Squib.”

Harry sinks into his chair and peeks around the screen at Ron’s desk. The mug of tea he left almost a week ago is still there, on top of a half finished pile of paperwork. Of course Ron’s desk looks the same. He’s stared at it every day for a week, not wanting to clean it, because that’d mean admitting that Ron isn’t coming back soon enough to do it himself. He doesn’t know why he’d expected it to be any different, but somehow, after all that’s happened, the normalcy of it is startling. He banishes the half empty mug to the kitchen with a sloppy flick of his wand, secretly hoping that it’ll hit Donovan in the face on its way there.

He decides that writing a memo for Hermione will save him a lot of time; no one is let into the Department of Mysteries without having a barrage of spells shot at them and signing a three foot long non-disclosure agreement. Then, he summons a fresh cup of tea and starts on his report to Savage about his trip to Azkaban. He is trying to determine how many details of Draco’s conversation with his father he wants to put in when Hermione pokes her head in. Harry rolls up the parchment, and gets to his feet, grabbing the vial off his desk.

“Do you have time to view it with me? Ron said you were going to pick up Rose...”

“Yes, I have time. I had Molly pick her up, but the Pensieve in the Department of Mysteries is being used for some very important research. It won’t be available for at least a few days.”

“A few days? But this is important!”

“I found another one we can use…”

Harry rubs at his face. Fuck! As if a visit to Azkaban, having a drink with Malfoy and visiting Ron in hospital isn’t more than enough for one day. It’s almost tea time, and all he wants is to go home, order pizza and go to sleep. And now he has to go and have biscuits and polite conversation with McGonagall in order to use the Pensieve in her office.

“Right. When is McGonagall expecting us?”

Hermione is biting her lip in that way she has. The one that means that Harry isn’t going to like what she’s about to say. “I talked to Draco and he said we could use his. We’re expected at Malfoy Manor at eight.”

The Floo at Malfoy Manor is in the entrance hall. The dark blue hearth rug is soft enough to mask the sound of Harry’s clumsy exit from the fireplace. He steps to the side to unblock the path for Hermione and looks around as he brushes a few specks of ash away from his jumper. Admittedly, he didn't spend a lot of time looking at his surroundings when he was dragged here by the snatchers, but he's fairly sure that the room didn't look this bright and inviting.

There's a bright fire illuminating the marble floor and the pale blue walls, and the well polished wood of the grand staircase is gleaming in the warm light. He hears Hermione step out of the fire, but doesn’t turn to offer her a hand, because Draco is walking down the stairs and he looks… He looks gorgeous. His hair is falling over his eyes and he’s wearing jeans and a soft looking dark grey shirt, but that’s not the biggest difference. Draco is carrying himself with perfect ease, and Harry realises just how tense and guarded he has been the last few times they’ve met. Not to speak of the haunted boy he remembers from his school days.  
Hermione pokes him gently in the back, and Harry realises that he’s been staring–again. Draco must think he’s a total idiot, the way he keeps falling off the face of the earth whenever he moves or talks or… yeah. He’s utterly fucked.

He turns to look at Hermione, and finds her taking off her cloak and handing it over to a house-elf, who seems to have appeared out of nowhere, without making a sound. Or perhaps there was a sound, and Harry was just too busy making an idiot of himself to notice. He looks at the elf again, trying to distract himself, and feels like he’s been punched in the guts. The tiny creature looks extremely familiar.

“Will there be anything else, Master Draco?” The elf looks at Draco through pale, bulbous eyes.

Draco glances at Hermione.

“No thank you, Tobby. I’ll fetch refreshments myself if we want them.”

Tobby? Harry can’t help wondering if he’s standing in front of one of Dobby’s relatives, but given how his old friend used to speak of them, he’s not sure if he dares to ask. Before he can make up his mind, Tobby disappears with an extremely muted pop.

“I’ve set up the Pensieve in my study. It’s down there, to the left.” Draco indicates a corridor, and gestures for them to move first.

“Thank you for letting us use it,” Hermione says.

“It’s no trouble. I want to know about the memory too. How’s Weasley?”

“Better. They’ll probably let him come home soon. But still no magic.” Hermione sounds so tired. Harry reaches out and links his hand with hers as they walk towards the square of warm light at the end of the corridor.

The study reminds Harry of Draco’s office at the museum, except there’s no sign of Muggle technology. He’s glad in a way. A laptop in Malfoy Manor would probably be one surreal thing too many on this already bizarre day. Besides, it’d probably blow up from all the magical energy inside the Manor.

There’s a fire glowing in the ornate, marble fireplace, casting a warm orange glow on the muted gleaming dark wood and the floor to ceiling bookshelves covering three walls. Speaking of gleaming things... Harry glances at Hermione and, sure enough, she has that hungry gleam in her eyes that she always seems to get around books that she hasn’t read yet. She looks at Draco, and when he nods and sends her a small smile, she runs her hand admiringly over the spines of leather bound tomes, and traces the golden letters in one of the titles with a fingertip.

When he looks at Draco, he’s startled to see a small, genuine smile, just like the one on his own lips. It’s good to know that Hermione has made a friend who is as hungry for knowledge as she is. It’s the one area where neither he nor Ron has ever been able to measure up.

Draco clears his throat and nods at the Pensieve that’s been set up on a low table next to his desk.

“Sorry,” Hermione says. “It’s just…You have the first edition of Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration… All twelve volumes!”

“You’re welcome to borrow it, if you want. It has some very interesting notes in the margins, made by my great uncle.”

“Thank you. I’d love to.” Hermione actually looks tempted to rip the books from the shelf right now.

“Would you like to disperse the memory, or may I?” Draco asks.

Hermione tears herself away from the books, and Harry hands Draco the vial.

“Go ahead. It’s your Pensieve.”

The Pensieve looks ancient. The intricate runes are almost worn down by many generations of witches and wizards leaning over the edge of the stone basin. Harry shies away from thinking about what they’ve been seeing in here. Draco unstoppers the vial with his father’s memory and pours the silvery liquid into the dark Pensieve . They watch it swirl, and then the surface goes blank. They join hands before they dive in. Harry lets himself be grounded by the smooth pressure of Hermione’s small, warm hand, at the same time as Draco’s larger, cool palm resting against his own sends a surge of tingling energy through his body. He lowers his head into the basin and lets the curious sensation of not-wet water wash over him. And then he’s submerged in a shadowy world of memories.

Lucius Malfoy is kneeling in front of Voldemort, who is rambling about how Mudbloods are polluting the magical bloodlines, and how the only way to stop them is to drain the magic from their filthy, unworthy bodies and leave them like the Muggles they were always supposed to be. Nagini is there too, slithering around behind him, creeping over his ankles and raising her head to hiss threateningly in his ear. Harry sees him shivering, small trembles that are only visible to someone paying close attention.

Voldemort finishes ranting about magical blood and instructs Lucius to find him the artefact that will allow him to drain the magic and use it as a weapon to slay his enemy.

“Find it. Bring it to me. This is your last chance of earning my forgiveness. If you do not bring me the cup, your weakness and cowardice will be punished.”

Voldemort stands up, and Nagini slithers to his side. Lucius remains kneeling, but bows his head almost to the ground.

“Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord.”

The memory swirls around them, and Harry is dimly aware that Draco’s hand is shaking against his. He gives it a small, reassuring squeeze. Then the memory clears again, and they’re absorbed in the shadowy scenes once again.

Lucius standing in a room full of patterned chintz and doilies. A fat, white cat is winding itself around his legs and purring. He tries to charm Adrienne Wright with smiles and gentlemanly manners. He tries to reason with her and appeal to her pure-blood upbringing. He tries to buy the information with gold. Finally, he loses his temper. A terrified house-elf is hiding behind an overstuffed, floral armchair as he threatens her with the wrath of the Dark Lord. Adrienne doesn’t even hesitate. She just asks her house-elf to escort their guest to the door, and before Harry knows it, Lucius Malfoy finds himself being unceremoniously dumped at the doorstep, and the door slams shut behind him.

Lucius returns to the Manor. He reads loads of books and writes notes in a journal that he hides inside a hollow tome. There is something about snakes and references to ancient cults. Something about a ritual in a secret language, and using the blood of the victim to release the magic from the cup. But nothing about how to find the cup itself.

Lucius kneels in front of Voldemort and screams in agony as the Cruciatus curse hits him over and over again. Finally, he collapses into unconsciousness. He wakes up in his bed, drinks a pain potion and drags himself to a soft-looking chair in front of the fireplace in the drawing room, where he continues to read about the illusive cup. Then Narcissa bursts through the door, followed by a gang of Snatchers and a small group of prisoners. “They say they’ve got Potter. Draco, come here,” Narcissa says.

The memory disperses and they rise through the liquid, breaking the surface and gasping for air.  
Harry feels like he’s about to be sick. He looks at Draco and Hermione, and they both look like they’re in shock. Hermione is pale as a ghost, and Draco… two bright red spots are visible on his cheeks, and he looks like he’s fighting to stay upright. He’s gritting his teeth, and Harry can see the muscles in his jaw throb. He looks livid.

“That filthy bastard!” he grits out. “This was nothing but a fucking guilt trip. What a bloody waste of time! Fuck!” Draco’s fist collides with the wooden table, and the small vial tumbles to the floor and rolls toward the fireplace. Harry suspects that it takes a lot to make Draco snap these days. He’s obviously witnessing something that not many people get to see: Draco Malfoy being completely honest about how he feels.

“Draco.” Hermione reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think it was worthless,” she says quietly. Draco turns and looks at her tiredly.

“How can you say that?” he asks. “That last memory. He only put it there to remind Potter why he shouldn’t be working with me. And the rest of it? Completely trivial. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a memory of him reading books and being tortured?”

“The notes. Do you think you can recognise the book he hid them in?”

Draco goes completely still. Then he smiles. “Yes. Yes, I actually think so. Hermione, you really are the brightest witch of our generation!”

Hermione rolls her eyes at him, but she’s smiling. Harry can feel his own answering grin in the way his cheeks are starting to ache.

“It must be in his old study. Mother had the elves lock it up after the war. I think everything is as he left it.” His smile fades. “Including the curses. I’m not sure we’ll be able to get in there, at least not right now. It could take days to dismantle the wards.”

Days? Fuck! They don’t have ‘days’. They need to get the Chalice before it causes any more harm.

“Do you think you can do it on your own, or should I ask Savage to bring in a curse-breaker?” Harry asks.

“I... “ Draco runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in uneven tufts. Harry sort of wants to reach out and pat it down. A dishevelled Malfoy must be against the natural order of things. Malfoy shakes his head.

“Mother won’t like having Ministry officials here. After the war- It’ll remind her-”

“I’ll help, if you need it,” Hermione cuts in quietly. “Your mother was perfectly polite to me that one time we met in Madame Malkins last year, and… Just tell me if you need any help.” She bites her lip.

“Yes. Sorry. I didn’t think… Sorry.” Harry stammers, and immediately wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. “I’ll help too, if I can.”

Draco smiles. It’s a small thing. Just a quirk of lips, really, but it seems genuine enough.

“Maybe we should get some sleep first?” Hermione suggests. “Breaking curses and dismantling wards requires a lot of focus, and we’re not exactly well rested…”

“That sounds reasonable,” Draco agrees. “I’ll try to identify the curses, and contact you if I need help.”

When Harry wakes, there’s a dull midday light spilling into his bedroom. He doesn’t usually sleep this late, but after yesterday, he was sort of expecting it. When he peeks at the alarm clock on the windowsill that doubles as a bedside table, there’s a very familiar barn owl perched on the ledge outside. Groaning, he swaddles himself in the duvet and lets it in.

Hermione’s letter is short and to the point.

_  
_

Dear Harry,  
I hope you got back safely last night. Ron is much better today. There is no sign of his magic returning, but he is very hopeful and in good spirits. St. Mungo’s can’t really do anything, so they are releasing him today. I’m taking him home this afternoon.  
Please come over for dinner. Rosie misses you and we’d both love to see you!  
Love,  
Hermione

He finds Ron in the kitchen, watching Rose trying to pet Crookshanks. He’s smirking slightly behind his mug of tea. The ancient cat looks decidedly unenthusiastic about Rosie’s sticky little fingers in his fur, his tail swishing at his ears twitching. When Harry hesitates a moment in closing the door, he quickly makes his escape into the garden. Rose frowns, but is quickly distracted by pulling off her shoes and socks.

Harry winks at her and pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Good to see you up and about, mate!” He gives Ron a quick, one armed hug and a slap on the back.

“It’s good to be home! Sit down and grab a mug. I’ll put the kettle on.” He’s making a sort of twitchy motion as if to reach for his wand, but then he shakes his head with a rueful smile and gets up to fill the kettle.

“Hermione’s just run to the shop for some dinner supplies,” he says, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of milk. “Seems we’re out of almost everything. Now, tell me about Lucius’ memory.”

“Hermione hasn’t told you?”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you. She doesn’t think like an Auror.” He shoots Harry a quick grin.

“Please don’t tell her I’ve said that.”

Harry grins back, and a fraction of the weight that’s been lodged inside his chest these past few days lifts.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.”

Dinner is a quiet affair. Ron keeps reaching for his wand. To set the table. To clean up when Rosie knocks her glass over. To send the dishes back to the sink. Hermione’s clearly noticed too, because she seems to be developing duelling-speed reactions to everything that might require a spot of magic. By the time they’ve finished their pudding, Ron is silently fuming, Hermione is biting her lip nervously, and Harry is busy entertaining Rose, trying to keep her from noticing her parents glaring at each other.

“Do you want me to read you a bedtime story?” he asks.

“Yes, please! Read the one with the hopping pot.”

He Floos home after having put Rose to bed and having an awkward cup of tea. He’s barely slumped into his favourite armchair, when the Floo flares to life.

“Potter?”

He crosses the floor in three long strides and kneels in front of the fire.

“Malfoy?”

“I think I’ve found a way to get into my father’s study.”

”That’s brilliant!”

“Will you come and help me? You’re welcome to step through the Floo.”

“Sure. Stand back. I’ll be right there.”

Malfoy is pacing in front of the fire when he steps through. He’s expecting to land in the hall, but the connection Draco’s been using takes him directly to his study.

“Thank you for coming,” Draco says politely.

“No problem. Did you get hold of Hermione?”

“Erm, some of the curses and wards are… I don’t know how to say this politely. They aren’t exactly Muggleborn friendly. I was hoping we could handle this without her help.”

Draco’s cheeks are turning slightly pink. Harry shakes his head. He might be friends with Hermione these days, but apparently he doesn’t know her very well.

“Right. You do realise she’s not exactly going to be pleased about that, don’t you?”

“I’d rather have her cross with me, than have her injured.”

And that’s…almost noble. And overbearing as fuck. Also a bit daft, since Hermione is really good at breaking curses. On the other hand, she’s not a trained Auror, and she’s got more than enough to think about right now.

“I’m not sure she’d agree with you there,” he says.

Draco leads him past the quiet hall into a different wing. Things are darker here. The corridors are lit by torches that flare up when they come near them and die out behind them. As far as Harry can tell, it’s as pristine as the rest of the Manor, but the air is cold and clammy, and there’s a musty smell, like this part of the house isn’t in regular use. In fact, the atmosphere here is much more like he remembers Malfoy Manor from before. A portrait of a haughty looking blond, dressed in something that looks suspiciously like a less moth-eaten version of Ron’s old dress robes, is glaring at them as they pass. Harry can’t help a shiver running down his spine, and suddenly he’s very glad that Hermione isn’t here. Her memories of this place are even worse than his.

Draco stops in front of a door.

"Alohomora."

The locks click, and Draco pushes the door open.

The room looks nothing like Draco's cozy, warm study. The atmosphere of disuse is even stronger in here, and the Dark Magic is so strong Harry can feel it thrumming through the air like a current of restless energy and jabbing at his skin like millions of tiny needles. Like it's trying to push him out of the room. He looks at Draco, and finds him looking just as uneasy as he feels.

"What do you think it is?"

"What do I think what is, Potter?"

"The Dark Magic. Don't you feel it?"

"No. But I think I know why you do. You're a half-blood. I think that's why it’s reacting to you. I can disable it, but I may need your help."

"What do you want me to do?"

The look on Draco's face is one of extreme focus and determination, as he raises his wand.

"Just be ready to cast a Shield Charm, in case the wards don't react well to me."

Harry nods. He grips his wand tightly and waits, watching as Draco starts casting a complicated set of charms.

At first, nothing happens. Draco is frowning in concentration. He grips his wand a little tighter and tries again. The Dark Magic starts to build. Harry feels it expanding around him. It's like an invisible fist is pressing in on his chest and making him choke and gasp for air. The pressure intensifies until his vision blurs and he has to fight to keep his thoughts focussed.

Then it disappears. He can feel it rush past him and towards Draco. The air shimmers and twists, and a curl of dark smoke rises towards the high ceiling. Then nothing. The absence of magic feels like a breath of cool, clean air on a hot summer day. Harry lowers his wand.

"You did it."

"I hope so. You can't feel the wards anymore?"

"No. The magic disappeared when you finished the spell."

"Good. I don't like being here."

"We just have to get the book, and we can leave. Do you remember what it looked like?"

Draco walks over to the shelves behind the desk. He runs his hand lightly over the books and pulls one out.

"I think it's this one. My old copy of Beedle the Bard." Draco smiles and points at the dark purple letters on the cover. "The title is written in charmed ink. It changes colour depending on the owner's mood."

Draco flips the book open. Somehow they've moved closer together. So close that Harry's arm brushes against Draco's and sends a tingly shiver down his spine, when he leans in to take a closer look.

The notebook doesn't look like much. It's small, bound in smooth, black leather, with the initials LM stamped in gold in the bottom right corner. It's exactly the kind of thing Lucius Malfoy would own, Harry thinks. Tasteful, and yet obscenely expensive and obnoxiously in-your-face about it. He reaches out to take it from its hiding place.

A loud bang and a flash of bright, orange light makes him snatch his hand back. Too late. His arm is engulfed in searing pain. Through the ringing in his ears he hears the sound of Draco's voice.

"Fuck! Aguamenti!"

And then the searing pain is gone, replaced by a sudden numbness. Draco is staring at him with his wand still raised. Harry stares back.

"Take your shirt off!"

"W-what?"

"For fucks sake, Potter! Your arm? I can't heal it through your shirt, you know!"

Heal it? He looks down at his arm. A light cloud of steam is rising from the sodden and scorched remains of his sleeve, and underneath, the skin is red and blistering. A dull throbbing, different and somehow even worse than the sharp pain from before penetrates the numbness. He starts unbuttoning his shirt with shaking fingers, but fuck, it hurts now, and his legs are getting sort of wobbly from the adrenaline rush. He slumps against the edge of the desk and blinks up at Draco, trying to figure out how to move his hands.

"Fucks sake," Draco swears again. Harry watches as he bends to grab his old book from the floor. Before his muddled brain catches on, Draco has slung an arm around his shoulder and Apparated them.

They land on a soft carpet and Harry recognises Draco's study. Then he's being pushed into a soft chair and strong hands are gripping his shirt and ripping it off. Or rather, it's ripped from his torso and down one arm. Draco kneels in front of him and pushes his knees apart, and he’s too frozen with pain and confusion to do anything but make room for him between his thighs. Then those fingers go from forceful to gentle, as they cradle his wounded arm and carefully peel the wet fabric away from burned skin. But no matter how gentle Draco is, it still hurts like hell. Harry clenches his teeth and focuses on keeping his breathing slow and steady.

Draco turns his arm over, careful to only touch the less-burned patches of skin, and starts undoing the cuff. Harry curses the stupid design of his shirt. All those buttons! What is it with wizard wear and buttons? He should have done what he usually does and thrown on a t-shirt, but this morning in front of the mirror, it had seemed like a good idea to look somewhat presentable.

The last button is finally undone, and the cuff loosens. Draco peels it away slowly, but still manages to take a sliver of burned skin with him. A hiss escapes through Harry's clenched teeth. Draco looks up at him, grey eyes intense with something that Harry can't really define.

"I don't think a simple healing spell will fix this. I have some salve and a pain potion, but if you'd rather see a healer..."

Harry doesn't want to see the inside of St. Mungo's ever again, if he can help it. He holds Draco's gaze for a second. Then he lifts his arm slightly.

"Do your worst, Malfoy."

Draco's answer is a single, curt nod. But his eyes look relieved.

"Tobby!"

The small elf appears almost without sound.

"Yes, Master Draco?"

"Please fetch the burn salve and a dose of pain potion for my guest. Oh, and a clean shirt. Preferably with short sleeves."

Tobby eyes the pile of wet fabric on the floor. He's too polite to actually say anything about it, but the split second look he sends Harry tells him all he needs to know.

"Does Master's guest want his shirt cleaned?"

"No thank you, Tobby." Harry looks at his blistered hand. No. Not up for casting anything yet. "But I'd be grateful if you'd vanish it for me."

Tobby nods and flicks his hand, and the shirt disappears. A second later, so does the elf.

Draco raises his wand and starts casting healing charms. Harry watches, fascinated, as the skin knits back together, going from blistered to angry red to pink with each pass of Draco's wand.

"You're good at that."

Draco pauses to offer him a small smile.

"Thank you. I've had a lot of practise. I used to get sunburned all the time, when I worked in the Mediterranean."

"Your work... It's not what I'd have expected you to do. The old you, I mean."

Oh fucking hell. Reminding Draco of the past is probably a really bad idea. But Draco just smiles that small, nostalgic smile again.

"And that's exactly why I decided to do it. It's not exactly glamorous, you know. The pay is so ridiculous you'd laugh. And I only got the curator position because there were't any other candidates under the age of ninety. But I really enjoy it."

Harry nods. He's dreamed about doing something like that himself. Get away from all the preconceived notions of who he's supposed to be.

As if on cue, Draco looks up again.

"You, on the other hand–you ended up being an Auror, just like you were supposed to."

"Yes." He shrugs. "Can't say I wasn't tempted to do what you did, though."

"What I did?"

"Something unexpected. Like... starting a home for abused crups and kneazles, or going to Romania to work with dragons."

"With Charlie Weasley, you mean?" Draco smiles.

"Yeah. He offered me a trainee position after the war. In case I wanted to escape all the publicity."

"I can see why that might have been tempt- ah! Tobby, thank you."

The little elf hands Draco a jar and a vial of potion. He leaves a soft-looking light blue t-shirt on the table and disappears with a bow.

Harry unstoppers the potion and downs it in one go, carefully swallowing it all, and trying not to think about the slightly lumpy texture and the muddy taste. He watches as Draco dips slender fingers in the soft, golden salve. The first gentle pass of those fingers over the sensitive skin of his newly healed arm leaves him shivering. Draco bows his head over his arm, and applies the salve with gentle, careful movements. Maybe it's the almost-caress, maybe it's the smell of honey and chamomile. Whatever it is, it makes Harry's pain-clenched muscles relax, and his breathing evens out. Something warm curls low in his belly and he shivers again. Draco looks up at him through almost silver lashes. His eyes look darker in the low light from the fireplace.

“Are you cold? I can cast a warming charm…”

The warm curl in Harry’s belly spreads to his chest.

“No, I’m fine. Just… the new skin. It’s… sensitive.”

“Oh. Right.”

Draco lowers his gaze again, and his fingers resume their gentle stroking. Except this time, it’s more like a caress. Those fingers! He shivers and lets his eyes drift closed. The last bit of tension drains from his shoulders. This is the closest he has been to someone for a long time. The most intimate touch he’s felt since… he doesn’t even remember.

Draco runs the pad of his thumb over the inside of his wrist, and he gasps. The hand on his skin stills. Fuck! He shuts his eyes a little tighter. No. He has to look. Has to see what expression is on Draco’s face. He opens his eyes, and finds startled, grey eyes staring at him. Draco’s lips are slightly parted, and they look so soft and perfect. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s leaning towards them. The grip on his arm tightens almost to the point of pain, and then relaxes, as Draco leans in to close the distance.

The kiss is gentle. Almost like a question–do you want this too–though Harry doesn’t really know if he’s the one asking. He fully expects Draco to wrench himself free, but God, he smells so good, like fresh cotton and man, and Harry can’t help himself. He leans forward on the chair and deepens the kiss, almost groaning at the first, intoxicating taste. Draco’s scent and taste blend together and invade his senses, making him light headed and giddy. And suddenly it’s not a matter of who is kissing whom, but something they are sharing. He runs a hand up Draco’s neck, enjoying the warm skin under his palm and the shiver his touch is inducing. He threads fingers through the short hair at his nape, marveling at the silky feel of it. Draco gasps and arches his head back into his hand. Harry pulls back from the kiss enough to take a deep breath. Draco rests his forehead against his.

“We shouldn’t.”

Cold numbness spreads through Harry’s body and settles like a lump of ice in the pit of his stomach. He starts to pull away, but Draco stops him with a hand on his chest.

“No. Listen. I want to. But…it’s complicated right now, with the case and…” Draco leans in and places a quick kiss on his lips. Nothing more than a peck, really. And Harry’s too paralysed to do anything but accept it without trying to deepen it.

“God, I want this. But we should keep focussed, don’t you think?”

Fuck. Draco’s right. He knows that, despite the maelstrom of want and fear and hope that’s pouring through him. He nods.

“Right. Focussed.” Like this won’t leave him reeling for days. He stands up and puts the t-shirt on, grateful that his face is hidden for a few precious moments. The soft fabric enveloping him in a cloud of Draco’s scent is pure torture. When he yanks his head free of the shirt and adjusts his glasses, Draco is standing in front of him. He reaches out a hand, but seems to change his mind about touching him, and lets it fall to his side, before it brushes his arm.

“I’m not turning you down, Harry,” Draco says softly. A curl of warmth spreads through him at the sound of his name, spoken in that familiar, sophisticated voice. He looks up. Grey eyes stare back at him.

“I’m not,” Draco repeats. “I want to see where this leads. I just don’t think that it’s a good idea to go any further while everything else is still so chaotic.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right. You are right.” A small laugh bubbles through him. He feels like an idiot. “I’m sorry for being such a whiny git. We should keep our heads clear right now.”

Draco smiles at him. “We should probably start by trying to break the curses on that notebook.”

Harry is awake unusually early for a Sunday. A cold draft is seeping under the duvet where he’s stupidly kicked it off during the night. He gathers it closer around him, burrowing into the hot cocoon. He’s not really ready to leave his very nice dream of kisses and soft, blond hair and broad shoulders behind. A sound penetrates his lovely, worry-free state of half sleep. There’s an owl trying to get in. Again. A very stubborn owl, he decides, after ignoring it for about thirty seconds to no avail. He drapes the crumpled duvet around his body and goes to open the window. A gust of icy wind and Hermione’s barn owl sweeps into the room, and Harry slams the window shut. The owl drops a letter on the table, and perches on top of one of his chairs, staring disapprovingly at the closed window. He hurries to open it again, and the owl hoots at him, but stays where it is.

“You can go back home, Persephone. I’ll read the letter as soon as I get dressed,” he urges.

With a last hoot, the bird takes flight, and he closes the window again. He turns around to find his clothes, and his eyes land on the shirt he borrowed from Draco. Reaching out, he runs his hand over the soft cotton, stroking it once. It’s such a pathetic, silly thing to do, but no one is here to see anyway, so he brings it to his face and nuzzles his nose into the fabric, inhaling the scent of clean cotton and Draco. He shakes his head and smiles to himself. Here he is, a grown man standing in the middle of his living room, in his underwear, sniffing a shirt. He knows it’s pathetic, especially since they’ve agreed that this isn’t going anywhere right now, which is the right decision, he reminds himself. Again. Mooning over a stupid, borrowed shirt isn’t helpful at all. He’s on his way into the bathroom to throw it in the hamper, but, at the last moment, he changes his mind and throws it on the bed instead. He probably won’t have time for laundry today anyway, and so what if he sleeps in it tonight? Snuggling with someone’s shirt is not completely creepy if they’re going to see where this mutual… thing they’ve discovered is going, is it? And Draco will never know, anyway.

He throws the duvet over the shirt, and goes to take a quick shower. It’s not as if he actually needs one, he muses, while massaging shampoo into his hair. He washed twice during the one he had last night. Once before wanking furiously to the thought of Draco kissing him and running his fingers all over his body, and once after. God! He’s actually turning into a seventeen year old! He shakes his head. This is exactly why Draco said they should wait until the case is over to see where this… thing is going. And it’s also exactly why waiting is a bad idea! There’s no way he won’t be thinking about that kiss all day!

He dries off and grabs a pair of jeans and his oldest, softest Weasley jumper. No formal robes with millions of buttons today! He ventures into the kitchen in search of some sort of breakfast–probably dry corn flakes, he thinks. He hasn’t exactly had time to run to the shop these last few days, and the milk has probably gone off by now. He picks the letter up on the way back through the living room. Then he makes a cup of tea, and tears the envelope open. The letter is just a short note, written in Hermione’s neat cursive.

 _Harry,_  
We’ve decided that Ron might be more comfortable in a Muggle environment for now. We’re going to stay with my parents for a few days. I hope you’ll join us for breakfast.  
Love,  
Hermione

P.S. I’ve invited Draco too.

He smiles. It makes sense for Ron to stay with Hermione’s parents, he supposes. And Ron won’t exactly find it a hardship. His interest in Muggle objects has grown over the years, almost rivaling his father’s. Besides, everything in Ron and Hermione’s cottage is operated by magic. Ron won’t even be able to open the door, without magic to take down the childproofing wards, or make himself a cup of tea, without casting a charm on the kettle.

But Draco? In a Muggle home? That ought to be interesting! Harry looks at his comfortable but slightly lumpy jumper and jeans combination. A restless, squirmy feeling lodges deep in his guts. No. If he’s going to sit around and talk to Draco like nothing has happened, he should probably at least wear something that doesn’t look like it’s been in the back of his wardrobe since he left school. And maybe he should try to tame his hair just a bit.

He finds a newer pair of jeans and a dark green wooly jumper. Then he rummages through the bathroom cabinet. He thinks he's seen... Yes. There it is. The hair potion Philippe bought for him over a year ago. He breaks the seal on the bottle and wets his fingers. Then he runs them through his hair, before examining the result in the mirror. It still looks a bit messy. But more in a windswept sort of way, and less like he's been struck by lightning.

He Apparates to the corner behind the shed in the Grangers’ back garden ten minutes later, taking a few breaths of damp air and enjoying the smell of soil and pine. He’s still standing there, when he is startled by a high pitched squeal. He peers around the corner, and finds Hermione’s father pushing a laughing Rose on a swing, hung from a pine branch.

“Harry! It’s good to see you. Hermione and Ron are in the kitchen. You know the way.” He smiles and gives Rose a particularly laugh-inducing push on the swing.

He makes his way over the well kept but winter brown lawn, and pushes the door open. Hermione and Ron are sitting at the small kitchen table with mugs of tea in front of them. They’d looked up as he entered, but their heads are still close together, and Hermione is clasping Ron’s hand. She still looks a bit stressed, Harry thinks, but Ron smiles at him and offers a nod in greeting. He gently extracts his hand from her hold and uses it to maneuver a huge pastry into his mouth.

“Oh, I’ve missed real breakfast! Why do they always serve things that taste like parchment in hospital?” he muses. He’s still chewing, and Harry watches in fascination as a few flakes of sugar dusted pastry escape his mouth and land on the tablecloth.

Harry slaps him on the shoulder.

“Good to see you’ve got your priorities straight, mate.”

“Yeah. I might be the idiot who grabbed a cursed cup and got his magic stolen, but I’m still the reasonable one around here. ‘Mione’s invited Malfoy.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow dangerously.

”Did you just imply that I’m an idiot?”

“Erm… No? No! I just meant… Inviting Malfoy here is maybe a bit… erm...”

If they’re bickering like this, things can’t be too bad, Harry thinks. It’s such a relief that Ron seems okay that he’s almost forgotten about Draco. Almost. There’s still a small knot of something lodged behind his solar plexus.

“Harry? Are you listening?” Hermione sounds like she’s been trying to get his attention for a while.

“Sorry, what?”

“How far did you and Malfoy get last night?”

“W-what?” His mind supplies a not at all helpful stream of memories of hands gliding over skin and mouths meeting, tasting, exploring.

“The curse on Lucius’ study. Did you break it? Did you get his notes?”

“Oh! Yes. We did. I ended up burning my arm, but Draco healed it.” He sketches a small wave, trying to demonstrate that his arm is perfectly healthy.

Of course this is the wrong thing to say. Before he knows it, Hermione is yanking at his arm, casting a diagnostic charm on the perfectly healed skin where the burn used to be, and muttering about stupid boys and how he’s so stubborn that he hasn’t been to see a healer. Harry glances helplessly at Ron, but he just shakes his head in mock sadness and mouths, “Draco,” while rolling his eyes. Unhelpful bastard!

He must have been too preoccupied with Hermione’s fussing to hear the door opening, but all of a sudden Draco is there, smelling like fresh soil and wind, bending over to take off his muddied wellies next to the door. He bends over and lean muscles strain his thin, wooly jumper while heavy khakis pull tight over his arse and thighs. Harry has to look away to keep his mind from getting flooded by images of what he’d look like without the muddy cotton to obscure his view.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to stop by the excavation. One of the trainees forgot to cover up the trenches. Again. And it’s been raining a lot this morning.”

Hermione has been levitating the kettle and an extra mug over to the table, but now they hover in mid-air, while she turns and looks at Draco worriedly.

“I hope nothing happened to the stone altar!” she says. “You’ve been working on that section for weeks!”

Draco shakes his head. “It’s fine. Some minor damage to the base, but I managed to contain it with a few sponges and a bucket, and Martin can clean up the rest of the mess tomorrow, since he’s the one who started it.” He casts a Cleaning Charm on his muddy trousers. Then he pulls out the offered chair and busies himself pouring milk and tea and stirring in an obscene amount of sugar. Finally, he looks up.

“I… how are you?” he offers Ron a cautious look.

Ron shrugs.

“Er… still no magic, but at least I’m not in hospital.” His tone is casual, but the stoic look on his face isn’t quite convincing anyone.

“I’m sure it’ll come back very soon,” Draco says. “I brought the notebook, and I have a few ideas…”

“What does it say?”

Draco flips the book open and points to a section written in green ink and underlined in black.  
“This part is really interesting. It talks about a ritual to gain the magic back, if someone accidentally touches the cup. I don’t think my father discovered the wording, but there are many allusions to snakes and an ancient form of magic. Of course, that’s not exactly precise, because as you know, there are numerous ancient cultures associated with snakes.”

Hermione is leaning so close to the book that it’s almost completely obscured by a cascade of curls. She fumbles for her wand on the table without taking her eyes off the text, and nonchalantly configures a napkin into a piece of parchment, and a teaspoon into a quill.

“Is there anything in there about where he planned to look for this ritual?”

Draco shakes his head.

“He didn’t. The ritual would be worthless to the Dark Lord, if he didn’t have access to the cup itself. My father didn’t seem to think it was terribly important.”

Harry presses a hand to his forehead, trying to focus. “Right. So basically we’ve gained nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Ron says. “We’ve gained lots of information. But I think we need a strategy.”

He turns to Harry.

“You’ve got someone staking out Bludger?”

“Yes. There’s a team of officers outside his flat, pretending to fix some cables.”

“Right. And you’ve already set up Surveillance Charms on the meeting places Smith told you about, which means that you won’t need our help right now. All you have to do is wait for someone to do something stupid. I don’t think you’ll have to wait too long with that lot.”

Ron looks up and smiles at Hermione. “Research is top priority right now. ‘Mione, you and Malfoy should probably be in charge of this part, since you both have access to libraries.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry I can’t do anything to help.”

“That’s not true,” Draco says.

Ron sends him a disgusted look.

“Listen, Malfoy! Just because I’m a Squib now doesn’t mean I’m not sorry…”

Draco glares right back. “That’s not what I meant, Weasley! It’s not true that you can’t help. You’ll be living here, right? I’m sure your in-laws have a computer you can use. Go on the internet and search for things about ancient chalices and snakes and magic. You’ll find lots of crap, but you might find something useful too.”

Harry stares at Draco. When he turns to look, so does Ron. Hermione is still taking notes.

“The internet,” Ron says faintly. “Right.”

Mr Granger convinces them to stay for lunch. Harry sets the table, only half listening to the fairly disgusting conversation between Mr Granger and Draco about various forms of tooth decay in Iron Age skeletons. Hermione is trying to convince Rose that she should wear socks, and Ron is at the kitchen table, trying his best to look as if he knows what he’s doing with Mr Granger’s computer. He’s making a decent effort, Harry thinks. But on the other hand, what does he know? The last time he used a computer, it was a big, boxy thing with a huge screen and a cord and a… clicky thing. This one’s much smaller, not unlike the one he saw in Draco’s office at the museum.

“The interesting thing is, in the Iron Age, caries were associated with wealth and aristocracy. Poor people had quite healthy teeth.” Draco leans back in his chair and takes his elbows off the table, so Harry can set a plate down.

“And nowadays it’s the other way around,” Mr Granger supplies.

Harry jumps as the Auror badge in his pocket begins to vibrate.

“I’ll check back as soon as I can,” he says, already turning on his heel to make the jump to the DMLE. The last thing he sees before he Disapparates is Draco's face, pinched in worry.

He hits the ground almost running, and flushes himself into the atrium, not bothering to close the door to the stall.

When he reaches Level Two, he’s relieved to see that the department is quiet. He starts for the Auror division, thinking that whoever called him in will probably have left a message at his desk.

“Auror Potter!”

Davies is winding his way through the labyrinth of desks. Harry stops to wait for him.

“Do you know why I’ve been called in?”

“Yeah. I’m the one who called you. Sorry to disrupt your weekend plans, but one of the surveillance charms went off. Kitty Tor.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Who are these people? The same meeting place? You’d think they would know we’ll be watching it. Actually, this is stupid enough, it might be a trap. Are you free to assist me?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just be ready to Portkey there if I contact you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Davies can’t quite hide the grin on his face, when he turns to the reception desk. Gracie is looking at them with a small smile. “If anyone asks for me, please tell them I’m assisting Auror Potter.”

Harry smiles.

“Great. You go and get a Portkey set. I just need to grab my uniform and a few other things from the Auror department.”

Harry pauses to cast a Concealment Charm, and wishes that he’d brought his cloak with him. He’s not really meant to use it at work, but Savage probably won’t mind. Maybe. Besides, the rules are a little more bendable, when they’re dealing with SDEA cases.

He sneaks up to the same window he and Ron were looking through. Everything looks the same, and he can’t really process the fact that it’s been less than two days. It feels more like a year, with everything that’s happened... He tries to shake away the thoughts that are racing through his mind. Thoughts of Ron’s missing magic and Draco’s passionate kiss aren’t really helpful at the moment. Besides, thinking about Ron and Draco at the same time is awkward, even if those thoughts are in really, really different contexts.

Bludger is inside with two of his mates. They haven’t bothered with robes this time, just filthy jeans and faded quidditch shirts and bottles of cheap lager. They look like they’ve Apparated here directly from the pub. One of them is so tall that the Tornadoes shirt he’s wearing reveals a strip of pasty-looking belly fat. The other, Harry recognises from the Beheaded Goblin. He’s young, chubby and unnaturally tanned for winter. He’s wearing a gold chain around his neck and a pair of jeans so baggy they seem like they might drop around his ankles at any moment.. His beefy arms are covered in tattoos, and not exactly the kind that could be considered works of art. Some of them look like he’s spelled them on himself. They’re talking, and Harry roams in his pocket for the Disillusioned Extendable Ear he grabbed from the department. It’s not easy to unroll it by feel, but he manages, and feeds it through the same crack he and Ron used.

“...never find it where I’ve hidden it,” Bludger says.

“Yeah. We ought to hide the diary pages too,” says Tornadoes Shirt.

“Why can’t we just go ahead and steal the Mudbloods’ magic now?” Tanned Bloke supplies.

“Because we ‘ave our orders. ‘Sides, we have to wait for lots of ‘em to be in the same place at once! We can’t just waltz down Diagon Alley and start nicking magic. We won’ get enough before we get caught.”

“Yeah, alright.” Tanned Bloke’s shoulders slump. “I need to piss before we leave.” He walks towards the door, and Harry flattens himself against the uneven wall and tries not to breathe too loudly.

Tanned Bloke chooses a spot right next to them and unzips his baggy jeans. Oh, bloody fuck! Harry cringes. Having a baby Death Eater pissing on his shoes wasn’t a part of his plans for the weekend. He wants to look away, but something catches his eye. Tanned Bloke seems to have a problem with shedding. There are mousy brown hairs strewn down the back of his shirt. There’s a grunt and then he’s zipping up his jeans, and turning to go back inside. Before Harry even knows what he’s doing, his hand is reaching out, and he’s grasping a hair between his fingers. Tanned Bloke doesn’t notice, stomping right past him and back through the door.

“Finished enjoying the scenery?”

“Yeah, yeah. I need to get goin’. Mum’ll be askin’ questions.”

“What are you, twelve?” Tornadoes Shirt sneers.

“Shut up. Least I get a decent meal once a day.”

“Is Mummy goin’ to let you go to the game tomorrow? We’ll hide the diary after,” Bludger says.

“I’ll be there.”

Harry Floos into the atrium and manages not to stumble at all. Which is lucky, since he lands in the middle of a press conference. Percy is standing in front of the fountain, surrounded by photographers and reporters.

“...understand the needs of the ordinary witch and wizard. Which is why I am asking for four more years to do my best to serve our community and continue to meet those needs!” He finishes with a practised smile and a well choreographed tilt to his head, which makes his profile align perfectly with the new statue of Dumbledore that’s been erected at one end of the Atrium.

Harry rolls his eyes and tries to slip by unnoticed. He needs to extract a memory of this. And buy a ticket to the Tornadoes vs. Puddlemere game tomorrow. Unfortunately, Percy seems to have other ideas.

“Harry!” he says jovially, but loud enough that his voice carries. He’s jumped down from the podium in front of the fountain and is winding his way through the gaggle of photographers towards Harry. The cameras turn to him, and the Quick Quotes Quills start quivering in anticipation. Fuck! His shoes are stained with Death Eater piss, and his uniform is not exactly clean. Besides, he’s busy doing actual Auror work. A photo shoot with the Minister is really, really not what he needs right now. Not that that’s going to hold Percy back. He quickly schools his face into an appropriately grave expression and straightens his back.

“Yes, Sir.”

“None of that, now, Harry,” Percy tuts. “I’m sure you’re all aware that Harry is an old family friend,” he says to the reporters, and maneuvers Harry to stand next to him, giving the photographers room to capture a shot of them both, with Dumbledore looking benevolent in the background and the Magical Brethren off to one side. Harry suddenly wants to throw up.

“It is a great comfort to me, to have Harry and my brother Ronald working with me here at the Ministry, to help ensure a safe environment for the average British witch and wizard.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Harry says, and suppresses the urge to stomp on Percy’s foot. “Speaking of Ron, you’ll have to excuse me, Sir. I need to go and brief him about our latest case.” He nods at the reporters, and the cameras go crazy again. “...and on the fact that his brother is a complete wanker,” he mutters under his breath, as he escapes into the lift.

The door slides closed behind him, and he slumps against the wall, casting a thorough cleaning charm on his shoes. He’s probably going to get called into Savage’s office tomorrow and lectured about proper press etiquette. But really! Percy is so power hungry, he’s starting to wonder if he’s learned anything at all from his stint as one of Umbridge’s toadies. Ha! Toadies. He smirks at his own joke. The lift pings, and he steps out. Compared to the atrium, Level Two is a quiet haven. Gracie is using her wand to sort a stack of folders, and there are a few DMLE officers chatting over their desks, but no one seems to be in any great hurry. He catches Davies’ eye and sends him a smile and a wave, letting him know that he’s safely back. Then he makes his way to the Auror Department and sinks into his chair.

He extracts the memory of what happened, before thinking about it too much can make his own thoughts interfere with the pure sensory memory. When he’s drawn the silver strand from his temple, he stoppers the vial, and closes his eyes, letting the conversation between the Death Eaters unfold again in his mind. Fuck, he misses Ron right now! Going over this by himself feels all kinds of wrong. He tries to look at the information from all angles, but somehow, knowing that he can’t bounce his ideas back and forth with Ron keeps tripping him up.

He tries to organise his scattered thoughts into some kind of order.

The Death Eaters have some kind of leader with more brains than Bludger, and they are planning to strike at a time where many Muggleborns are in the same place at once. They’ve hidden the Chalice, and they’re going to hide the diary that holds the ritual that can release Ron’s magic back to him. And that’s where it stops. Without Ron there, he can’t form a plan of action. He eyes the vial. There is evidence of a crime in there, which means that technically speaking, it’s evidence. He shouldn’t take it outside of the Ministry. But Hermione and Ron both have the proper clearance, and Savage has authorised Draco as a consultant on the case… And if he hurries, he might still get a plate full of leftover lamb chops and possibly even some dessert. He pockets the vial and makes his way back to the atrium.

When he steps out from behind the shed for the second time that day, he almost runs into Draco. He looks a little paler than usual, and his mouth is set in a grim line, but when he sees Harry, his face lights up in a smile that makes Harry’s heart do an odd flip flop.

“You’re back!” Draco says.

“And you’re leaving.”

Draco shakes his head. “Not anymore.” he steps closer, forcing Harry to take two quick steps back into the shadowy corner behind the shed. Draco follows him.

“You disappeared.” Draco’s frowning, a small crease forming between his brows. 

The thought that Draco has been worried about him is enough to make his heart skip and his face soften. “I had to,” he says. “The alarm went off. But I’ve got loads of new information.”

Draco nods, but he doesn’t make room for Harry to step around him. He just stands there, staring at his face. At his eyes and–oh God–his mouth?

Very carefully, he reaches out and puts a hand on Draco’s arm. The soft wool of his jumper is a warm caress to the sensitive skin on his newly healed palm. He can feel the muscle underneath trembling slightly. Then Draco’s arm softens under his touch, and Harry leans in the rest of the way, brushing cold lips over warm ones, and breathing in the scent of fresh winter air and man.

“Fuck, I was stupid!” Draco murmurs against his lips. “Thinking I would be able to just put this out of my mind and go on like nothing happened.”

Harry feels his own lips curl up into a smile, breaking the almost-kiss they’ve been sharing. He pulls back and just looks at Draco. His face is open and his eyes are softer than Harry has ever seen them.

“Are you saying we should stop trying?”

“No. Yes. God, I don’t know. I was worried about you. About you. You’ve proved to be practically impossible to get rid of, and yet I was in there thinking about the most unlikely scenarios.”

The thought of Draco being worried makes him sort of dizzy. Apart from Ron and Hermione–and Molly, of cours– he’s not used to people worrying about him. It used to make him feel sort of claustrophobic, back when Philippe used to urge him not to go on assignments because it made him worry. He’s not feeling claustrophobic now. He leans in and brushes his lips over Draco’s cheek, inhaling that winter fresh scent again, and whispering into his ear.

“I have information that I want to share with you. All of you. And I sort of need to ask you a favour. But please, come back to my flat with me after. I can’t focus on anything, when all I can think of is getting you out of those clothes and into my bed.”

Draco pulls back enough to stare at him, and Harry has to force himself to meet his eyes. A rejection now is going to hurt like hell, and it’s not only his pride that’ll be smarting, he realises.  
Draco laughs. Harry looks up at him, startled, and meets soft, happy, grey eyes.

“Really, Harry? ‘Out of your clothes and into my bed?’ That is such a horrible line! The fact that I’m actually falling for it speaks volumes. I should have been in Hufflepuff.” Draco shakes his head and turns to go back inside.

For a few seconds, he can’t move. Draco is halfway to the door, when he shakes himself out of his stupor and breaks into a run to catch up.

“Is that a yes?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes. That is a yes.”

Draco opens the door, and Harry is immediately attacked by a small bundle of bushy hair and bouncy energy.

“Harry!” Rose runs at him and wraps her chubby arms around his legs, nearly tripping him. “Are you going to play with me?”

He looks down into big brown eyes. He misses this, he realises. These last few days have been so busy, and except for reading to her yesterday, he hasn’t really had time to play with his goddaughter. He really wishes he could tell her yes. He shakes his head.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Rosie. I need to talk to your mum and dad. It’s sort of important.”

She sighs and detaches herself from his legs. “Okay. I’ll play with Granddad.”

Harry watches her go, and tries to shake the feeling that he’s a crappy godfather.

“What’s important?” Ron looks up from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of biscuits and Mr Granger’s laptop.

“The stupid gits went back to Kitty Tor!”

“What? The same place? Exactly how dense are they?”

“Dense enough that I overheard their plans. Not dense enough to bring the Chalice.”

“Figures. What did you hear? Wait. Hermione should hear this too. I think she’s in the dining room, trying to convert it into a study.”

“I’ll go and fetch her,” Draco says.

Harry watches him leave.

“You and Malfoy seem to be getting along,” Ron says.

“Wha.. yes. I suppose we do.” Harry shrugs. His brain seems to have frozen. Is this… thing between them supposed to be a secret? “He’s all right,” he adds, helplessly.

Ron frowns. “From the way you were just staring at his arse, I think ‘all right’ is a bit of an understatement.”

“I…” He shakes his head. “Best mate or not, I am absolutely not having this conversation with you.”

Ron’s frown turns into a smirk. Harry throws a biscuit at him and sinks into one of the kitchen chairs.

Hermione and Draco come back from the dining room. Harry watches Draco put the kettle on, like he’s been living in a Muggle house his whole life. He wonders how much of the conversation with Ron he’s overheard. If he did overhear, does he mind?

“What did you find out?” Hermione asks.

“I think it’ll be easier to just show you.” He smiles at Draco. “That’s the favour I wanted to ask you. Do you think we could use your Pensieve again? It’ll be so much easier than getting clearance for the one in Mysteries.”

Draco’s busies himself with tea and mugs, hiding his expression in a cloud of steam and a curtain of shiny hair. Harry holds his breath.

Finally, Draco looks up.

“Yes. Of course we can use my Pensieve. But I’ll have to Floo ahead. The elves will be startled if I bring guests without notice, and Mother might be having visitors.”

“Sure. Can we apparate to the gate and walk up? I don’t know if Floo powder will work for me, but Hermione’s Side-Alonged me plenty of times in the past,” Ron says.

Fuck. Harry hadn’t even thought about that.

“Of course,” Draco says. I’ll Floo there now, and take care of the wards. Give me ten minutes.

They Apparate on the quiet country road outside the gate to the Manor. From this angle, it looks just as forbidding as it always has. The wrought iron gates swing open when they announce their presence, and they start the long trek up the drive. Harry is half expecting something to jump out at him from the sculpted hedges along the path, but nothing happens. As they get closer, the Manor seems to look friendlier. There is light behind the gleaming windows, making it seem more cheerful in the grey winter light. The first spring flowers are struggling to break free of the still cold soil, dotting the bare ground with streaks of bright green. The front door opens, just as they reach the first step.

Draco shows them the way to his study again. Harry watches Ron’s face, as he takes in the surroundings, noticing all the small differences. The portraits are whispering to each other and pointing.

A wizard with a walrus moustache and a traditional pointy hat on top of his blond head is less subtle.

“A Weasley? Here at Malfoy Manor! What will your Mother say, young man!?” he booms.

“Mother will probably congratulate me on having three Order of Merlin recipients and aspiring Ministry employees as my guests,” Draco answers. “Weasley, I hope you’ll excuse my uncle. He hasn’t really kept up with the times. Understandably enough, since he's been dead for half a century.”

Ron snorts.

“Oh, leave them be,” chides a young girl in a glittering robe. “Young Draco’s hardly the first to bring a Blood Traitor into the house. Your great uncle Hector was a Weasley, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but that’s entirely different!” the wizard scoffs. “My aunt Eleona was a very eccentric woman. Everyone knows she wasn't in her right mind. Besides, your aunt was a Longbottom, so who are you to talk!”

“At least Draco’s Weasley is quite handsome. Nice broad shoulders...” The witch sends Ron a rather lascivious look and a wink. Hermione grabs Ron’s hand.

“Oh, shut up,” Draco snaps. “Or I’ll have you hung in the sunroom, and you’ll fade.”

He closes the door to the study with a louder than necessary slam, and the portraits’ outraged protests fade into the background. Harry looks around. He didn’t notice last night, but the only paintings in here are landscapes and a few modern, abstract pieces. With the way the portraits behave, he certainly understands why.

Draco levitates the Pensieve from a high shelf, and it lands gently on the table.

“Here you are. It’ll be a bit crowded, but I think there’s room for all of us to watch at the same time.”

“Or I could just wait for you three,” Ron says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to see anything anyway.”

Hermione puts her arm around him.

“I’m sure you will. The magic in a Pensieve is not triggered by the person watching. It’s triggered by the reaction of the Pensieve liquid and the memory. Besides, even if it was triggered by a person, it should be enough that one of the people watching has magic.”

“But I want you to see it!” Harry blurts. Fuck. The last thing Ron needs is him whining.

“What do you think, Malfoy?” Ron asks.

Draco’s eyes widen for a second, but he quickly schools his expression.

“I agree with Hermione. A Pensieve is just a magical substance. Like a potion that you submerge yourself in. Most potions work on Squibs. Even on Muggles.” He shrugs. “But maybe it’s better if we take turns, if you’ll be more comfortable that way.”

Ron nods.

“Let’s watch it together. All of us.”

They gather around the basin and join hands. Ron makes sure to stand between Harry and Hermione. He’s getting along with Draco cordially enough, but apparently their ceasefire doesn’t extend to holding hands.

Harry takes a deep breath and plunges into the liquid.

When he reemerges, the first thing he does is look at Ron. He’s wearing that wet dog expression he always gets after a Pensieve viewing, and shaking his head to clear his ears of liquid. But other than that, he seems to be fine. He notices Harry’s look and smiles.

“I saw it! I had no idea Jamie Cadogan was involved with that lot.”

“Jamie Cadogan?”

“Yeah. The young one with the trousers around his ankles. Remember? That potion smuggling case where Donovan nearly ruined our cover?”

Harry does remember now. Tanned Bloke…No, Jamie, was released after questioning, because he was under seventeen at the time, and they didn’t have any real evidence of him being aware of what was in the crates he helped his uncle levitate.

“I really hope you cast a thorough cleaning charm on those shoes,” Draco says.

Harry can feel the heat spreading up his neck and across his cheeks. Fuck. He’s probably bright red and splotchy. How did he miss the fact that letting Draco see the memory would mean he’d know about the shoe pissing thing? He looks at his battered old trainers. They’re not looking any worse than they did this morning. The cleaning charm must have been thorough enough. But still…

Ron laughs. “Good one, Malfoy!” He elbows Harry lightly in the ribs. “I can’t believe you actually got pissed on, mate! I can’t wait to tell people at work!”

“I will never understand you! I knew Ron and Harry were immature, but honestly, Draco. I thought you at least were an adult.” Hermione has her hands on her hips, but the smile she’s sending Ron is brilliant. Her gaze shifts to Harry’s feet, and he feels his toes clench even before she draws her wand. The charm that hits him makes his socks slightly damp for a second, and then his shoes are a lot whiter and less scruffy than they’ve been for years. He wiggles his toes. Urgh. They even feel new and uncomfortable.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he says.

She tucks her wand back into her sleeve and nods primly.

“You’re welcome. Can we focus on the actual memory now?”

They school their expressions and nod. 

“You managed to snag one of his hairs, didn’t you?” Ron asks.

“Yes. I did. I want to go to the match tomorrow. See if I can find out where they’ve hidden the Chalice. And maybe get the diary pages before they hide those too.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Ron says. “It’s too risky. Besides, there’s no way in hell Savage’ll allow it.”

“I wasn’t actually planning on asking. She’ll just take me off the case and hand it over to one of the more experienced teams.”

“Have you considered that that might actually be the right thing to do?” Hermione asks. “Ron’s right, Harry. You can’t go alone.” She turns to Ron. “And don’t even think about going with him! Not without your magic!”

“I wasn’t! Honestly!” Ron smiles at her. “Actually, I was thinking maybe you could…”

“No. Absolutely not. I am not a trained Auror.”

“I know, but ‘Mione, it’s not like you don’t know how to fight… and you’d be under the cloak...”

“No, Ronald!”

They seem so lost in their bickering, Harry gives up and leaves them to it. Years of experience has taught him that it’s no use trying to interfere anyway. Beside him, Draco is following the battle of wills with horrified fascination. He turns to look at Harry, and that warm tingling curls inside him again, at the softness of those grey eyes.

“I’ll go with you, if you want me to…” Draco whispers, just loud enough for Harry to hear.

“Thanks,” he whispers back.

“Aren’t we forgetting something here?” Draco adds in a much louder voice.

Ron and Hermione fall quiet and turn to look at him.

“Bludger mentioned that they have a boss. Shouldn’t we be trying to figure out who that might be?”

Hermione looks slightly embarrassed.

“Yes. Of course we should. I’ve no idea where to start, though.”

“We’ll start with threats and old SDEA cases. See if we can find a connection, somehow,” Ron says.

“Right. And we should make a list of all the possible times and places where a lot of Muggleborns are gathered too. See if we can find out when they’re going to strike… Draco, can I use your quill?”

Draco hands it to her, together with a scroll of parchment.

“Harry, come and look! Is this an original Comet 140, Malfoy?”

Draco walks over to where Ron is admiring a gleaming, antique racing broom, mounted on the wall over the fireplace. Harry follows him. It’s easy to see from the slightly frayed bristles and the shape of the footrests that the broom is old, but it’s shining as if it has been polished just yesterday. It probably has.

“Yes. It’s the prototype. The first broom with a Horton-Keitch Braking Charm to ever leave the CTC factory. My grandfather paid a small fortune for it. He was a great Falcons fan. But, the story goes, he only flew it a few times. Never got used to the braking system. He was a bit old fashioned.”

“It’s a nice broom,” Ron says. “You should talk to Davies,” he mutters under his breath. “Get him to take Jamie Cadogan in for a friendly chat about illegal potions. That way, you’ll be able to avoid him at the match.”

Harry moves his head a fragment to indicate a nod.

“I can take it down if you want to have a closer look,” Draco offers.

“There’s no need to risk denting it, Malfoy. I’ll just admire it from afar.” He lowers his voice again. “And you’d better watch Harry’s back.”

“Don’t worry, Weasley. I’ll return him without a single dent.”

Hermione rolls her notes up and puts her quill down. “We should get back to Rosie, but I’ll keep working on the lists. Are you ready Ron?” She turns her far too knowing eyes on Harry. “Do you want to walk with us, or are you going to Floo?”

“Er… I think I’ll Floo. It’s been a long day.”

They say their goodbyes, and Ron grabs Hermione’s hand. She turns back, her hand already resting on the door knob. “I'll meet you tomorrow at the ministry, so we can get ready before the match. Draco, you’re taller than me, so you'll have to disillusion your feet when we're under the cloak.”

The door closes with a soft click, and Harry turns to look at Draco. He’s looking a little shaken.

“Your friend is scary, you know that?”

Harry smirks. “Who, Ron?”

Draco wrinkles his nose. “As if I’d ever be afraid of a Weasley!”

-

They Floo back to the flat together. Somehow, it’s not as awkward as he might have imagined–if he’d ever imagined something like this–having Draco there, in his cozy but not exactly posh living room, on his sofa, with a bottle of lager in his hand. He doesn’t look out of place at all. Harry sits down beside him and he smiles.

“I like your flat. It suits you.”

“You mean because I’m also slightly messy and not that big?”

Draco shakes his head. His lips curl up in a tiny smile, and he looks at Harry through half lidded eyes. “I meant that it’s inviting. It’s got a certain warmth to it,” he says.

And fuck, that tone is enough to turn him into a puddle of goo. The answering smile tugs at his lips before he even makes a conscious effort. It’s ridiculous, really, the way he is falling so bloody hard for someone he used to… strongly dislike. 

“Thank you.”

"You're welcome," Draco says, gravely. Then he leers. "Besides, you're plenty big as far as I can tell."

A jolt of arousal goes straight to his cock, and a surprised laugh bubbles up from the squirmy tangle of nerves in his belly, before he can stop it.

"Is this really coming from the man who accused me of horrible pick up lines?!"

"Yes," Draco says, looking up at him with a hopeful smirk. "I suppose it is. Is it working?"

Harry leans in to kiss that smirky smile off his mouth. Draco meets him half way. His lips are hungry, almost forceful, and Harry finds himself being grabbed by the wrists and pushed back against the cushion, his head framed by lean, lightly tanned forearms, and his vision obscured by strands of blond hair.

Draco's mouth is sliding down his throat now. Kissing, licking, nipping. The small, playful bites are just hard enough to send jolts of pleasure and pain straight to his cock. He turns his head to give Draco better access to the soft skin over his collarbone, and lets his lips brush over a slender wrist, tasting the salty skin there. Draco's mouth stills and his body goes rigid. Harry opens his eyes and there it is, only centimetres from his face. The blurred smudge of the Mark is so close it doesn’t even form a recognisable picture. Draco's breath is coming in quick, shallow huffs. Harry leans in and very deliberately kisses the scarred skin. He can feel Draco tensing up even more, and then relaxing. He turns his head and kisses Draco's other wrist, and he feels more than hears him exhale a long, shuddering sigh. Draco’s hands tighten on his wrists, a warning to keep them where they are. He closes his eyes and gives in to the sensations Draco chooses to give him. Everything quickly becomes a blur of hot and sticky and more-yes-please-oh-fuck-now! until somehow he’s naked on his back with a pillow shoved under his arse, and he’s moaning as Draco sinks down on his cock. The tight heat makes him gasp, and Draco leans down and covers his mouth in a rough kiss.

“Fuck! Harry! You’re so fucking perfect like this! Letting me use you. Letting me fuck myself on your cock,” Draco breathes, the words hot across his ear, and he shudders and bucks against him, chasing the feeling of Draco clenching tight around his cock.

He wants to tell him to speed things up because he’s not going to last long like this, but Draco’s cock is dragging warm and wet over his stomach, and when he bucks up, desperate for more, strong hands find his thighs and presses him back down, until all he can do is lay there and let Draco push him over the edge, his orgasm exploding white-hot from his balls to his cock, and into every cell of his body. Over him, Draco gasps and shudders, and comes with a choked off sounds that might be his name.

He curls around Draco, fitting their bodies together, and burying his nose in the fine strands of hair behind his ear, as he takes deep breaths and lets his body calm down. He lets his senses flood with all the impressions Draco's body has to offer; the smell of his hair, the salty taste of the skin on his neck and the silky feel of his skin under his hands. The soft sound of his heartbeat is a calming lullaby, and Harry drifts off, basking in the glorious feeling of lying next to someone he can't wait to wake up with.

A cold gust of air alerts him to the fact that he's alone. He opens his eyes, and finds Draco sitting at the edge of the bed, illuminated by a beam of light from the landing. A cold blanket of disappointment settles in his guts.

"You're leaving?"

Draco turns around, startled, and brushes his lips across his cheek, and then finds his mouth for a quick kiss.

"Not because I want to. But I have obligations at home in the morning."

"You didn't have to sneak off, though..."

Draco offers him a soft smile.

"You were sleeping so well. I didn't want to wake you. I was going to leave a note..."

He stands up and turns around. Then he leans down, and Harry loses himself in the soft glide of their lips and the tickling of Draco’s hair against his forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow at Ellis Moor,” Draco whispers against his lips. And then he’s gone, leaving Harry to toss and turn for hours, trying to interpret every little gesture or statement he’s made, examining them for proof that Draco wants to be with him. Around dawn, he finally comes to the conclusion that only time will tell, and he manages a couple of hours of uneasy sleep, before his alarm goes off.

The dilapidated barn near the stadium is not the best place, but it’s all they were able to find at such short notice. Harry checks again, but no one seems to have noticed the three pops of Apparition. Not that there’s anyone about to notice, apart from a flock of sheep. He can see the sky blue silhouettes of the Tornados fans and the blood red of the Wanderers fans in the distance, making their way towards the small crop of trees that conceal the stadium. He looks back at his two companions. Hermione and Draco look totally out of place in their hastily bought Tornadoes paraphernalia. Of course, it had been Hermione’s idea to buy clothes that would make them blend into the crowd, if the cloak should fail them somehow. But the light blue of the jersey makes Draco’s eyes look almost blue, and Harry has to resist the urge to just stand there and stare at him. At least he doesn’t stare at his face. Instead, he lets his gaze wander down his body, past his lightly muscled chest and his lean thighs to where his feet used to be. They’re not there now. Knowing that they should be, he can just about make out their outline, when Draco moves, but that’s it.

“Nice concealment,” he says.

“Thanks.” Hermione sends him a small smile. “Do you have the cloak?”

He passes it to her wordlessly, and rummages in his far too big jeans to check that the vial of Polyjuice Potion and the small Ziploc bag with the hair in it are still there.  
He’s finally closing his hand around the small bag, when there’s a warm hand on his shoulder. He allows himself to lean into Draco’s touch for just a moment, before turning around.

“Here,” Draco says. “I brewed this. New formula. It should give you an extra hour or so.”

“Brilliant! Thanks.” The smile is so sudden and so big, his cheeks hurt. “So, I’ve got my potion, and you’ve got the Cloak. We’d better get moving. You never know when Shannon’ll catch the snitch. She’s dead fast.”

“Aren’t you going to use the potion?” Hermione asks.

“No. I’ll wait until the game starts. It’ll buy me some extra time. Besides, it’ll help me build my credibility. I’ll tell them my mum didn’t want me to go to the match.”

“That’s actually clever,” she says. The surprise is almost masked by the compliment.

“Thanks, Hermione.”

“We should go. The match starts in twenty minutes,” Draco puts in.

There’s a bit of shuffling around and a few muttered curses as the Cloak slips, but in the end, all three of them manage to fit under it, and they make their way across the moor and into the stadium. They find a quiet spot under the stands, and Harry slips the hair into the vial of potion. It swirls and bubbles, and then the smoke clears. Jamie Cadogan smells a bit like gasoline, and the potion has a nasty, oily look to it. Harry gulps down half the vial, wishing that he'd thought to bring a freshmint. The taste makes him gag, but only for a few seconds. Then the feeling of his body simultaneously stretching and shrinking is so overwhelming that he can’t focus on anything else. His waist grows wider, and his face turns pudgy and pimply. He can feel his fingers grow shorter and wider too, and when he looks down, he has to take off his glasses to see his ragged fingernails clearly. Hermione holds out a hand for the glasses, but the thought of giving them up makes him feel oddly exposed. He slips them into his pocket instead.

“Right,” he says. “I’d better go.”

He looks around carefully, and then slips out from under the cloak, just as the whistle is blown and the match starts.

He feels Draco’s hand press against his back for a fraction of a second, and thinks he hears a whispered ‘be careful’. But over the noise of the stadium, it might just be wishful thinking.  
He looks up into the stand, and finds a sea of red. It’s probably a bad idea to go up there. He had a chance to review Jamie Cadogan’s file this morning, and he’s been in his fair share of fights with fans of other teams.

Instead, Harry makes his way carefully across the wooden beams that support the stands, until he spots mainly blue jerseys above his head. He pauses for a moment, just long enough for an invisible hand to brush his shoulder to let him know that Draco and Hermione are behind him. Then he starts for the stairs. He makes it all the way up the stairs and into the stands, before Bludger and Tornadoes Shirt notice him. Harry looks around. That nickname won’t do for the extremely tall bloke anymore. Everyone around them is wearing Tornadoes shirts.

“Oi! Jamie! What kept you?” Bludger asks.

“It was Mum,” Harry mumbles. He puts on a scowl. “Wanted me to go grocery shoppin’.”

“You need to move out, mate. She’s treating you like a fucking kid,” Tall Bloke advises.

“Yeah, I know,” Harry says.

The whole stadium errupts in shouts and gasps, and Harry turns his head to the game. The Tornadoes beaters have just performed a stunning Dopplebeater Defence, and Harry finds himself cheering and shouting without having to act at all. The bludger zooms towards one of the Wanderers beaters, who has his back turned, following the trajectory of the two seekers, as they fly side by side towards one end of the stadium. He gasps as the ball speeds towards the oblivious man, but just as Harry is about to close his eyes to avoid having to watch the man’s skull split open, he turns and avoids it by a last second Sloth Grip Roll.

“Damn!” Bludger shouts. “They almost had him!”

“Bloody Wanderers!” Harry scowls and kicks at the railing in front of him.

“Look!”

He snaps his head up, just in time to see the two Seekers speed toward the ground, chasing the Snitch. It zooms back up right in front of the tribune, and the players follow it, so close to the stands that the tail ends of their brooms almost hit Bludger in the face.

“Hah! This time they almost had you,” Tall Bloke grins. Harry joins in, and gets a kick in the leg from Bludger for his trouble.

The game ends almost an hour later, when Shannon finally catches the snitch, and the Tornadoes win 260-190. They make their way back across the moor with the other fans, lagers in hand and singing… well, more like shouting, but that might be better, because Harry doesn’t know all the words.

As they approach the Apparition point, he has to make more and more of an effort to appear careless and happy. This is the point where their plan is most likely to fall apart. If Bludger doesn’t give clear instructions for where to Apparate, or if he somehow fails to Side-Along Hermione and Draco… He tries to shake it off, but by the time they reach the small stand of shrubs and bushes, he’s as pumped on adrenaline as before any other mission, and the loud singing is difficult to hear over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. A strong, invisible hand catches his wrist for a brief moment, and brushes against his palm. It’s enough to snap him back into reality, and make him wish he could actually hold Draco’s hand. Then they step into the roughly circular path where the grass is worn away by the shoes of hundreds of witches and wizards turning to Disapparate.

“Where do we go?” Tall Bloke asks.

“Can’t go back to Kitty,” Bludger says. “Boss says it’s not safe.”

“Where, then?”

“Scara Brae? Maybe going north’ll shake them off.”

“Yeah. Scara Brae. You coming, Jamie?”

Fuck. He has no idea what or where Scara Brae is. A kick over his calf almost makes him jump. He looks down.

“You go ahead, I’ll catch up.” He gestures at where one shoelace is trailing along the ground.

Bludger laughs. “You do that. I’m not finding your bits for you, if you Splinch yourself by tripping in your shoelace.”

Then they’re gone, and two heads appear right next to him.

“Good thinking with the shoelace,” Harry whispers. “Where the fuck is Scara Brae?”

“Orkney. It’s a Neolithic settlement site,” Draco says. “I’ll Side-Along you.”

“Perfect.”

“Do you think we’ll all fit under here? Might be best not to be seen landing.”

“Yes,” Hermione says. “We used to Apparate under there all the time. And Ron is taller than you.”

Draco nods, and Harry slips under the Cloak again.

Orkney is just as windswept as Dartmoor, but a lot colder and more misty. The wind is whipping around them, threatening to blow the cloak away and reveal their legs. They’re standing in some sort of maze made by stone-slabs. Harry looks around. He can’t see Bludger and Tall Bloke anywhere, but he hears rough laughter in the distance, the sound of glass breaking on the stone. Probably one of their beer bottles.

“We’re inside one of the houses,” Draco whispers. “I thought it’d be best to bring us somewhere secluded. Just tell them you got a bit off course.”

“You have about twenty minutes before the potion wears off,” Hermione says. “You’ll have to see where they’re hiding the pages and find an excuse to go, so they won’t get suspicious and hide them somewhere else.”

He nods, even though they’re so close under the Cloak, that he’s not sure if Draco and Hermione will see. Draco presses his hand against the small of his back, and he allows himself to lean into the touch for a few seconds. Then he slips away from the relative safety of the Cloak again, and makes his way towards the sound of voices.

“Oi! Jamie! You have trouble tying that shoe of yours? Mummy usually does it for you?”

“Fucking hilarious! Got a bit of course, that’s all.” He does his best to sound contrite, and somehow it’s beginning to come more naturally. It must be fucking exhausting to be Jamie Cadogan, having to listen to those two comedians all the time! “Let’s just hide the sodding thing and get back to the pub!”

“Aww! Did Mummy set a curfew?” Tall Bloke pipes up. Harry shows him his middle finger.

“Shut up, Matt! Leave Jamie alone, and help me out.” Bludger is kicking at the stone slabs in one of the ancient walls. “We’ll cast a water repellent charm on it and stick it in here.”

Tall Bloke – Matt – starts tossing the loose stones away.

“Stop that! We’ll have to put them back so no one’ll see they’ve been moved,” Bludger hisses.

“Who the fuck made you the boss?” Matt mutters, but he starts stacking the stones more carefully. The hole grows rapidly, and a few minutes later, Bludger starts rummaging in his pockets. He takes out a small, unassuming package. It’s square, flat and wrapped in an old pillowcase with bubbling cauldrons on it. He sets it down on the pile of stones and points his wand at it.

“Impervus!”

Nothing happens. Bludger frowns at his wand, then holds it up and shakes it. Harry has to make a conscious effort not to roll his eyes. Time is running out quickly, and the stupid git can’t even pronounce a basic charm. 

“Let me try,” he says, and draws his wand.

“Impervius!”

There’s a small flash and the fabric is covered in a slight sheen, like a plastic membrane.

Harry looks up and finds Bludger staring at him, with his wand still in his hand.

“Jamie,” he says slowly, “What the fuck happened to your wand?”

“Er,” Harry says. “I nicked Mum’s.” His heart is racing and he’s desperately trying to come up with a reason why Jamie Cadogan would have to steal his mother’s wand.

“Yeah, right,” Matt says. He’s got his hand in his pocket, and Harry can see the outline of his fist as he grips his wand. “Did you nick her face too?”

Fuck! He looks down at his hands and finds them growing longer and more slender. And what’s worse, more blurry. He needs his glasses again. He grips his wand tightly and looks back up, just as Bludger raises his wand.

“Diffindo!“

Harry dives out of the way of the Severing Charm, and spots Matt trying to snatch package. Without getting to his feet, he lunges for it, and manages to grab hold. But it’s slick from the mist on the outside of the repelling layer, and he feels his wand slip from his hand as he yanks the pages out of Matt’s hands. He rolls behind the small pile of stones, taking what little protection they offer, and not caring about the burst of pain in his leg, when he lands there. He can hear curses and hexes being cast, and Hermione’s voice yelling ‘Protego!’ right before a sickening green light bounces off the newly erected shields right in front of his face. He fumbles desperately in his pocket, finally finds his glasses and slams them onto his face, already looking around for his missing wand. He spots it in a small crevice between two stone slabs, where the wall meets the floor. It’s a few paces away, and judging by the pain in his leg, he’ll have to use his arms for support if he’s going to move, which means letting go of the pages. He tucks it against his torso with one hand and arm, and uses the other to lever himself up to get a better look at what’s going on. Hermione must still be under the cloak, somewhere further back, but Draco is standing a few steps behind him to his left, hurling hexes and curses at an impressive speed. He’s focussing so hard on his duel with Bludger that he doesn’t see Matt come at him.

“Reducto!”

“Draco, look out!” he shouts, but his voice drowns in the battle noise.

“Protego!” Hermione yells, but the curse is already cutting through the air. It slides off the shield in front of Draco, and is deflected right toward where he’s hiding. He acts on pure instinct, curls up in a tiny ball behind his small stone hideaway, with the package cradled protectively against his chest. There’s a deafening crack that leaves his ears ringing, as the stones in front of him splinter. He feels the package starting to slide out of his hands, and desperately grasps at the torn pillowcase with numb fingers. And then there’s Draco’s arm around him and Hermione’s voice in his ear telling him that she’s got his wand, and the sickening tug behind his navel that tells him that they’re Disapparating.

Apparently, they’re going to the Grangers’. In between swearing and cursing and having to lean on both Hermione and Draco to limp from the spot behind the shed and into the house, he wonders why they’re not going to Malfoy Manor, and why that leaves him slightly disappointed. He’s known Hermione’s parents for years, after all, and up until a few short weeks ago, Malfoy Manor didn’t exactly induce a feeling of safety and comfort. But putting weight on his right ankle feels like stepping on broken glass, and he decides that he’s got more important things to worry about.

The door to the kitchen is slammed open, and warm yellow light spills out into the grey winter afternoon.

“Harry! What the hell happened to you?”

Without even pausing to put on his shoes, Ron hurries out to meet them, and takes Hermione’s place on his left side.

“I had a little run in with a stone wall. And a Reducto curse,” he adds, when he realises that he still can’t really feel the fingers in his left hand.

“Why did you bring him here, then? He should be at St. Mungo’s!” This time Ron’s questions are posed right over his head, to Draco.

“No I shouldn’t!” Harry tries to protest.

“Where’s Rose?” Hermione says.

“She’s at the playground with your mum.”

“Hermione Apparated us here. Besides, I was under the impression that we were trying to keep this out of the papers,” Draco says calmly. “Mostly for your brother’s sake.”

“Yeah, Percy is a wanker,” Ron mutters. “He can fuck right off, with his stupid election. But I think Harry’s broken his ankle. He should be in hospital.”

“Really Ron? He’s right here,” he snaps. “And I’ve hit my leg, not my head. I’m capable of deciding for myself if I need to go to St Mungo’s!” To be honest, he probably does. But he bloody hates that place. Besides, they’re busy. Fuck! The New Dawn knows that they’re on to them now. They’ll have to move fast if they’re going to have any chance at all of getting to the Chalice before it’s hidden even better. And they still don’t know who the “boss” is.

They’re in the kitchen now, and Mr Granger is pulling out a chair for him. He groans, first in relief, when he’s finally sitting down, and then in pain, when Ron lifts his foot onto the table. Hermione casts a cooling charm on his ankle, and the pain lessens enough that he’s able to think straight.

“I just need a swig of Skele-Gro,” he says. “We need to get moving. They know we’re on to them. We should take them in right now, before they move the Chalice or alert their boss!”

“I’ll take Ron to the Ministry, and we’ll sort it out with the Aurors and get the diary pages back to Mysteries, and try to re-match them with the rest of the diary. Draco, you take Harry to St Mungo’s,” Hermione says. And fuck, he’s tired of people speaking over him, like he’s a child. He narrows his eyes at her, but she only offers him a tightlipped smile.

“Right,” Ron is already heading for the door. “We’ll see if Cadogan can’t give us an idea where to find the other two, and send a team to Orkney to secure the crime scene.”

Hermione puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it lightly. “Please, Harry. Ron’s going to be fine! Just…” She turns to Draco. “Get his leg fixed and keep him from doing something stupid,” she adds. Then she’s gone and the door closes with a gentle click.

The second they’re gone, he twists around in the chair to look at Draco. He’s leaning against a cupboard, one jeans-clad leg folded over the other, and looking oddly relaxed in the Grangers’ very mundane kitchen.

“I don’t want to go to St Mungo’s,” he says.

“Okay.” Draco pushes away from the cupboard. “Can I cast a diagnostic charm on your ankle?”

“Yes, sure…” On the one hand, it might keep him out of the hospital, but on the other, if the break is really serious, it might be best to know. He’ll survive his hospital phobia if he really has to. Draco casts a complicated charm, and there’s a faint red glow a few centimetres above his ankle.

“It doesn’t look too serious… It’s not even a real break, just a few cracks. I can fetch you some Skele-Gro from home, if you want…”

It’s not until he feels the relief surging through him that he realises how badly he’s been wanting to avoid going to hospital. He slumps down in the uncomfortable kitchen chair and takes a deep breath. “Thanks,” he says. “It’s just that… I really hate that place!”

Draco nods. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. You’re a grown man. It’s not anyone else’s decision to make.”

“Yeah, I know, but…”

Mr Granger pokes his head around the door. “Is there anything I can do to help? Would you like me to get a painkiller for you? I have some Ibuprofen…Or I could see if Hermione has one of those potions in her old bedroom…”

“Ibuprofen would probably be best, if you want it,” Draco offers. “It won’t interfere with the Skele-Gro.”

“Thank you Mr Granger. Ibumetin would be great,” Harry says.

Mr Granger nods and disappears. Harry can hear his footsteps on the stairs. Draco gets a glass from one of the top cupboards and runs the tap for a few seconds to get the water properly cold. He sticks his hand under the stream of water to test the temperature, before he fills the glass and turns the tap off. On the way back, he tears off a paper towel to use as a coaster for the glass.

“You look so at home here,” Harry says. Fuck. Nervous chatting is not what they need right now. There must be something wrong with his head as well as his ankle. But Draco just smiles a little wistfully.

“I feel at home here. I used to rent a room from a Muggle family, back when I was in uni. I saw it as something of an anthropological experiment. I even changed my name for a while. Draco Spinks... I wanted it to sound more Muggle, but in the end I realised it just sounded ridiculous." Asmall smile is playing on his lips, and he lifts a shoulder in a lobsided shrug. "The kitchen was my favourite room in their house. It was always warm, and it reminded me of a potions lab, somehow.”

Harry nods dumbly. That small smile is still playing around Draco’s lips, and his hair is falling into his eyes. He looks so open, and he really wants to say something profound. Something to acknowledge the gift Draco is giving him by sharing this bit of his past. But nothing comes to mind, except stupid things like ‘I want to kiss you’ and ‘I think I’m falling for you. Badly.’ So he keeps his mouth shut.

Luckily, Mr Granger comes back before the silence stretches into something uncomfortable.  
“I keep some 600 mg tablets around for the patients. This should be enough to take the edge off, but not enough to let you do more damage by trying to put any weight on it,” he explains.

“Thanks, Mr Granger.”

He swallows the tablet and gulps down the water. Muggle painkillers are so much more pleasant to take than potions. Draco takes the empty glass from his hand.

“I’ll go and get the Skele-Gro. Do you want me to help you with anything before I go?”

A part of him wants to ask Draco not to go at all, or to take him back to Malfoy Manor and the soft armchair in front of the fire in his study. He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be right back,” Draco says, and heads for fireplace.

He keeps his word. The blinking digital watch on the oven tells him that it’s only a few minutes, before he’s back, though Harry thinks it feels like much longer. The Ibumetin is starting to work, and he’s cast another cooling charm on his leg, so he’s not exactly in pain, as long as he doesn’t move his leg–just uncomfortable, sitting on the hard kitchen chair with his leg on the table.

“Here you go.” Draco hands him a spoon and measures out the potion. “I don’t think you need more than this. It’s not a very complicated break…”

“Thanks. By the way, how did you learn to cast healing spells?”

Draco grins. “I didn’t. That diagnostic spell is one I use at work. You’ve just been examined the same way I handle ancient burials.”

He barks a surprised laugh. “Well, I do feel sort of like an old corpse. But thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome. Now, try to stand up.”

He puts his foot on the floor carefully, and when that doesn’t hurt, he tries to stand. There’s still a throbbing sort of dull pain, like there might have been some spraining along with the fracture, but other than that, he’s fine.

“How is it?”

“Much better. We should catch up to Ron and Hermione at the Ministry.”

“Yes. You should. I think I have to go home instead.”

“Why?” Fuck. That’s sounded really clingy. “I mean… we could really use your help with the diary!”

Draco looks at him a little too knowingly. “Between the Unspeakables and the Curse-breakers, I’m sure the Ministry staff will be able to handle it without my input. Besides, the way you feel about St. Mungo’s? That’s more or less how I feel about the Ministry. I don’t exactly have fond memories about the place.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think... Obviously.”

And here he goes again, sounding like an idiot. But Draco just smirks.

“Yes, obviously.” The smirk turns into a small but genuine smile. “Will you Floo me, when you’re done?”

“Of course.” He walks over, still grateful to be able to move, and puts his arms around his neck, pulling him in for a brief kiss.

He finds Ron and Hermione in the least classified area of the Department of Mysteries, where even lowly Aurors have access. Hermione is engrossed in the diary with a few of her colleagues. Ron is sitting in a chair, surrounded by a gaggle of Curse-breakers and Unspeakables. One look at him confirms that he’s trying–and failing–to control his temper. When one of the Unspeakables pokes him in the ribs with her wand while casting a charm on him, he jumps from the chair.

“Look, I’m not a bloody Blast-Ended Skrewt for you to experiment on! Just leave me alone, and work out how to perform the bloody ritual!”

They scuttle back with offended murmurs, but the shade of Ron’s face doesn’t leave any doubt that he wants to be left alone. And, Squib or not, no one is going to challenge him when he’s wearing that expression.

Everyone giving them a wide berth and occasionally shooting nervous looks at Ron means that they’re able to speak in relative peace.

“How’s it going?”

“They’ve put a team together and they’re looking for Bludger and his mate. And someone is questioning Jamie Cadogan, under the SDEA regulations this time.” He raises his voice and levels a glare at the Unspeakable who’s been sidling closer with her wand raised. “If only this lot would leave me the fuck alone and do something useful!”

She scoots back and takes shelter behind Hermione.

“What’d they say at St. Mungo’s?”

“Erm… My foot’s not broken.” It’s not a lie. At least it’s not broken right now. But Ron isn’t that easy to fool.

“So you didn’t go then.”

He shrugs. “No. It would take all day, and I wanted to be here.”

“Right. Savage was asking for you. I told her you were getting your injuries fixed and you’d check in when you got here.”

“Yeah. I’ll go in a minute. When do you think they’ll be ready to perform the ritual?”

Hermione raises her head from the diary. She rubs at her temples for a second, trying to erase the tension, the way she always does after a particularly gruelling reading session. “I think it’ll be about an hour still,” she says. “Plenty of time for you to go and check in with Savage.”

“Thanks, Hermione.”

Savage isn’t in her office, but Harry finds her in the conference room, when he makes his way back to his cubicle. She’s sitting alone, going through a presentation.

“You wanted to see me, Ma’am?”

“Ah! Potter! I just wanted to make sure you! I just wanted to make sure you were in one piece. Weasley and Unspeakable Granger told me what happened, but I wanted to hear it from you too.”

“We went to the Quidditch match, and then followed the suspects. Unfortunately, my Polyjuice wore off, and we ended up duelling. I hurt my leg and dropped my wand, but got the pages. Then Hermione Apparated us away. My leg’s fine now, though. I was just about to go and relieve whoever is interviewing Cadogan.”

“Good work on the diary, Auror Potter.” Savage gives him a stern look. “I trust that I won’t have to tell you what I think about putting civilians at risk by bringing them along on a mission. Or about the possible sanctions, if you should choose to do so again.”

It’s not quite a question, but he still answers.

“No, Ma’am. You don’t. Do I still have permission to have Hermione and Draco help me with the case? On an... erm… consulting level?”

Savage looks at him for so long that he has to consciously keep himself from squirming like a Hogwarts first year, unable to answer a question in Snape’s potions class. Then she nods curtly.

“Yes, Auror Potter. You may involve them in a strictly academic capacity. No field work. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. You should go back to Mysteries and see how Auror Weasley is doing.”

Savage turns back to the presentation she’s been viewing, and the dismissal couldn’t have been clearer if she’d said the words out loud. It’s probably best not to push his luck by going against a direct order, so instead of going to the interview room, he heads back towards the lift.

He opens the door to the Department of Mysteries. The room is empty, except for a bored young wizard in apprentice robes, guarding the door to the next room.

“Excuse me. Do you know where Auror Weasley and Unspeakable Granger are?”

The young man looks up and blinks owlishly at him from behind glasses even thicker than his own.

“They went inside.” He buries his head in his book again, but adds, “You’re welcome to wait here, if you want.”

He really doesn’t want. What he wants to do is go inside and see if Ron’s all right.

“Can you let them know I’m here?”

He shakes his head, curls bouncing around his face. “Sorry, Auror Potter. I’m not allowed in there when they do experimental magic.”

Experimental!

“What exactly does that mean? Experimental magic…”

The apprentice must have seen something in his expression. Something that gives away his anxiousness. 

“It doesn’t really mean anything…” he hedges. “I mean… It just means that they haven’t done that particular spell before.”

“Right…”

“It’s probably not dangerous! The Head of Department wouldn’t have let them do it if it was,” the young man says earnestly.

“Thank you. I’m sure you’re right. Are you sure there’s no way to contact them?”

“Yeah. Besides, it’s probably best not to disturb them. Unspeakable Granger doesn’t really like to be disrupted.”

“You’re right. She really doesn’t.” He sinks down into the chair Ron was sitting in before. “I’ll wait out here. Thank you.”

The young man smiles and goes back to his book. “You’re welcome.”

It’s almost two hours before the door finally opens.

Ron looks a bit pale, but he’s beaming. He also has his arm slung around Hermione, and looks at her like she’s hung the moon. She looks frazzled and a bit tired, but so relieved that she’s probably only standing because of Ron’s arm around her. He jumps up and meets them halfway across the room.

“How’d it go?”

“Hermione was brilliant! We thought we were going to need you to try and revive your Parseltongue skills for the snakey bits. But Hermione managed with a Translation Charm instead. The incantation was really complicated and it was written in some kind of code, so she had to translate it as she went along. But she did it! I can do magic again!”

A tension he didn’t even know he’d been carrying leaves his shoulders, and he envelopes his friends in a tight hug, not caring that they’re standing in the middle of the Ministry. “I’m so happy for you!” he whispers into Ron’s shoulder and Hermione’s hair.

He unlocks the door to his flat, kicks off his shoes and puts his coat away. He also steps out of the ill-fitting jeans that he used to impersonate Jamie Cadogan. The sitting room looks the same as it always has, but after all that’s happened today, it feels… emptier than usual. He turns on the telly, hoping the background noise will make it feel more welcoming, but it doesn’t really work, so he turns it back off and starts rummaging through the kitchen cupboard for something to eat. There’s a half-eaten box of corn flakes and some less-than-crispy digestives. He eyes the menu from the curry place on the corner, which he’s stuck on the inside of the cupboard door with Spellotape. No. He’s not in the mood to go back out, and he doesn’t have a Muggle phone, so he can’t order in. Maybe he should get one. It’s a primarily Muggle building, and there’s only a minimal amount of magic around to keep it from working… But the only Muggles he knows are the Grangers and Dudley, so he’s never gotten around to it before.

He pours a bowl of cornflakes and sniffs tentatively at the milk bottle. It’s still fresh enough, so he gets a spoon out and carries his meal back into the sitting room to eat it in front of the telly. When he turns it on, all he can find is Top Gear, and he almost laughs out loud at his own expense. Watching Top Gear in his boxers while eating corn flakes for dinner? Pathetic! Draco would be appalled. Or not. He’d probably think of it as a fascinating anthropological experience… or put a stop to the madness by getting Harry out of his boxers as quickly as possible. He closes his eyes and imagines Draco standing in front of him, grey eyes light with laughter and a smirk playing on his lips. What would he say if he saw him like this? Probably something along the lines of ‘Take those saggy things off. And for God’s sake, don’t eat your cereal on the sofa, you complete savage! I have a better use for that pretty mouth of yours.’ And Harry would run his hands over hard thighs covered in soft cashmere, before unzipping–wait, no–unbuttoning Draco’s trousers and taking his cock into his mouth. They wouldn’t stay there for long, of course. Draco would pull him up and drag him to the bedroom and they’d end up fucking on top of the covers because pulling them down would be too much trouble. He opens his eyes again, and strokes his half hard cock. What he needs is a long, hot shower and a wank.

The hot water runs down his back, drumming against his skin and relieving the tension from his exhausting day. It makes the tiny cuts on his hands sting, but he really doesn’t care. It’s a small price to pay for the luxury of washing the grime away. He closes his eyes again, and imagines the small river of hot water trailing down his spine is Draco’s tongue. He grabs his cock and groans at the feeling of the hot water and the pressure from his fist, as he strokes himself. Images of Draco flash behind his closed eyelids. Draco pressing him back into the cushions and holding him there, taking what he needed and pushing it all back into Harry with his body and his words. Draco gasping and shuddering above him, coming with his arse clamped around his cock. Draco letting him hold him after, when they were both tired and spent. He gasps Draco’s name as he comes.

It feels like his head has only just hit the pillow, when something drags him back to consciousness. At first he thinks it’s just rain on the window, but then there’s a soft hoot, and the tapping picks back up. The cold floor under his feet wakes him up enough that he’s able to open the window without fumbling and let the owl in, together with a freezing gust of wind. It’s not one of the bedraggled Ministry birds that usually delivers the bad news when he has to go into the office during his time off. In fact, this owl reminds him painfully of Hedwig. It’s a little bigger and more angular looking, but just as majestic. It flies into the room, shakes a shower of icy water from it’s feathers, dumps a small envelope on his bed and flies back out, before he can even offer it a treat.

He picks up the letter and turns it over in his hand, feeling the soft but textured paper against his skin. His heart does an odd sort of skip-beat, when he sees the Malfoy crest on the back of the envelope. He turns it back over. It’s addressed to ‘Auror Harry Potter, Order of Merlin, First Class’. What the fuck? The handwriting is elegant, curvy and a bit old fashioned. And not Draco’s. He puts the envelope back down and gets his wand from the bedside table. He casts a few charms on it, and it glows a warm sunny yellow. Not cursed then. At least not in a way he can detect. He probably shouldn’t open it, just in case, but… it seems harmless enough. He carefully slides a finger under the paper and takes out the single sheet of heavy stationary.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

I am sorry to inconvenience you at this late hour. I am writing to you on behalf of my son, since I understand that you are on friendly terms. I will be brief. Draco needs your help. He has been taken into Auror custody, on suspicion of Death Eater activity. He is being held in the Ministry for the time being. Please, Mr Potter. I urge you to help him, if you are in any way capable.

Narcissa Malfoy

What the fuck is happening? Death Eater activity? Draco isn’t a Death Eater. He needs to get to the Ministry, right now. He grabs the first items of clothes he can find and throws them on, rips his uniform robes from the hanger and pulls them over his head, already walking towards the fireplace.

His boots clatter so loudly on the stone floor that he wakes the snoring receptionist. She sends him a nasty scowl, but he hardly notices, as he walks past the fountain of the Magical Brethren. As soon as he’s out of the Atrium, he breaks into a full on run. He almost barrels into Donovan on the stairs.

“Oi! What makes you think you have the right of way, Potter?”

“Sorry. Just going downstairs.” There’s no way he’s telling Donovan why he’s rushing down to the cells in the middle of the night, when he’s not even on duty.

Donovan smirks. “Going to gloat a bit at your old school rival? Can’t say I blame you. That Malfoy’s a stuck up little faggot.”

Punching the stupid wanker in the face won’t get him to Draco, so he grits his teeth and shrugs.

“What cell’s he in?”

Donovan laughs. It’s an ugly sound, ricocheting off the walls in the empty corridor. “I knew you weren’t the poster boy everyone makes you out to be. He’s in 23.”

He pushes past Donovan, but he can’t escape the sound of his voice, as he calls after him.

“Aren’t you going to thank me? I’m the one who made the arrest!”

“Like hell I am,” he mutters to himself.

Cell 23 is almost at the end of the corridor. Harry stands in front of the heavy, wooden door for a second, collecting his thoughts. For the first time, a tiny sliver of doubt creeps into his mind. What if Draco’s actually done something wrong? He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. No. He might have been willing to believe that a few weeks ago, but now that he actually knows Draco… No. He points his wand at his palm and draws a single drop of blood. Then he presses his palm to the door knob. It glows faintly, and when he mutters an unlocking charm it clicks open. He takes another fortifying breath, before he knocks gently, and opens the door.

When he sees Draco, even the smallest doubt he’s had disappears. He’s so pale in the bright light that his skin looks almost translucent, except from the dark circles under his eyes. His hair’s almost as dishevelled as Harry’s, and his white dress shirt is wrinkled and dusty.

“Thank God you’re here!” Draco jumps up from the wooden bench that doubles as a cot. He takes a few steps towards Harry, holding out his arms, and then stops. He lets his hands fall to his side, and something that can only be labelled as distrust passes over his face for a fraction of a second. “Are you on duty?”

“No. I’m just here to get this cleared up so you can go home.”

Draco visibly relaxes and takes the final steps towards him, leaning in for a hug that’s actually more about him leaning on Harry than anything else. Not that he minds. He drags him in even closer, and they stand there for a few seconds, just leaning on each other and breathing slowly.

“What the hell happened?”

“I have no idea! The wards have been set to accommodate anyone with a warrant, ever since the war, so they were able to Apparate right into the hall. They scared the elves half to death. They told me that I was being arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity, and brought me here. Then they told me they’d see me in the morning, and they left.”

“Yeah, that’s what the letter said. They didn’t tell you what Death Eater activity you were supposed to have committed?” On the one hand, he hopes not. It’s a tried and true tactic to keep the accusations as vague as possible, to maybe get the suspect to confess to more crimes that the Aurors know about. But on the other hand… If that fuckwit Donovan was the one doing the actual arrest, anything is possible.

Draco draws back enough to look at him.

“What letter?”

“Er… the letter from your mum?”

“Mother wrote you a letter? Oh God!” Draco sounds absolutely mortified.

Despite the circumstances, Harry finds his lips curling up in a small smile. “Come on, Draco! It’s not that bad. She didn’t write anything embarrassing. Just that she knew we are… what was it? Oh yes, ‘on friendly terms these days,’ and that she hoped I’d be able to help you.”

“Oh,” Draco says faintly. He walks back to the bench and sits down, resting his elbows on his knees, and cradling his head in his hands. “Are you? Able to help me?”

“I really hope so! But I need to go and find out what exactly the charges are.”

Draco nods. “Of course. Since you’ve become pen pals with my mother, will you let her know that I’m all right?”

He nods.

“Yes. I will.”

He already has his hand on his wand to cast the unlocking charm, when Draco speaks again.

“Whatever those charges are, I didn’t do anything. You believe that, don’t you?”

He turns back and looks into searching grey eyes.

“Of course I believe you.”

The DMLE is almost empty this time of night. The only ones there are the night shift, and they all look like they’re bored out of their minds. Perhaps the icy rain outside is keeping even the criminals home tonight. Two of the officers are playing Exploding Snap at the front desk, and a few are sitting around the wireless with their tea mugs in hand, listening to Percy and his opponent bickering over cuts in the St Mungo’s funding. Only one officer looks up, when Harry walks past, and his nod is returned with a small wave and a murmured ‘good evening’.

The Auror department is even more deserted. Donovan must have been the last one to leave. The only sound is the faint background noise filtering in from the DMLE and the ticking clock over the door to the conference room. Even the air freshening charms have been suspended for the night, and the office smells faintly of tea and dusty case files. He contemplates casting a locking charm on the door, but the DMLE officers don’t have clearance to come in here without an Auror present. Besides, it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. It’s his case, after all. He just really hopes that Donovan has finished up the paperwork and put it in the case file before he left, but knowing Donovan, he probably hasn’t. He Summons the case, and leafs through the papers, but there are no arrest papers. What a lazy sod! Donovan’s desk is empty except for a notepad and a couple of half empty mugs. What the fuck has made him arrest Draco, then? He picks the case file back up and looks at the paperwork more thoroughly. The last thing added is the transcript of Donovan and his partner’s questioning of Jamie Cadogan. He skims through the part where Cadogan is informed about the conditions of the interview, given Veritaserum and asked to state his name and address, and the part where he admits to being at Kitty Tor. He already knows everything in here. It isn’t until page three that he finds what he’s looking for.

 **Auror Donovan:** We know you’re not doing this by yourself. Who gives orders to your acquaintance, Bludger?

 **Cadogan:** Malfoy.

 **Auror Donovan:** Draco Malfoy gives you your orders? Does he take part in the meetings you told me about?

(Suspect is shrugging)

 **Cadogan:** He doesn’t meet with us. I reckon he doesn’t like getting his poncy hands dirty. But according to Bludger, our orders come from Malfoy.

Bloody hell! A huge block of ice seems to have lodged itself somewhere around his solar plexus. Icy cold spreads through his entire body, and he sinks into the nearest chair, not trusting his legs anymore. A statement given under the influence of Veritaserum is almost as good as an actual confession.  
He reads over the statement one more time. Our orders come from Malfoy. What the hell have you done, Draco? He hears Draco’s weary voice in his head. ‘Whatever those charges are, I didn’t do anything. You believe that, don’t you?’

Does he? He cradles his head in his hands and closes his eyes. He’s been so sure that Draco’s innocent, but… a statement under Veritaserum is hard to argue against. And yet, all he sees in his mind is Draco looking at him with those dark circles under his eyes, swearing that he hasn’t done anything, without knowing what he’s even charged with. Fuck!

He collects the pieces of paper he’s strewn all over his desk, and finds a clean sheet of stationery. Of all the stupid, reckless things he’s done over the years, this could very well be the worst, he thinks, while he pens a quick message to Narcissa Malfoy, that her son is safe and he’s doing everything he can to get him released.

He’s grateful that Ron and Hermione’ve set their wards to grant him access at all times. Otherwise, he might have ended up being bounced back onto the hard marble floor in the Ministry’s Atrium. Flooing into their kitchen at two a.m. might not be the brightest decision he’s ever made, though. He hasn’t even finished spinning, when he feels the tell-tale leaden sensation of a Stunning spell spreading through his limbs. Out of the corner of his unblinking eyes, he spots Ron peaking out from behind the fridge door where he’s taken shelter.

“Harry? What’s happened.”

Ron ends the spell and he blinks a few times, trying to gather some moisture in his dry, itchy eyes.

“Er… It’s a long story… but I need your help.”

“Yeah. Sure. Mind if I put some clothes on first?” Ron steps out from behind the fridge door. He’s naked, and clutching a jug of milk, which he’s placed strategically in front of his groin. Harry rapidly averts his eyes.

“Er. No. Please do. I’ll just…make a cup of tea and wait here.”

“Do I need to wake up Hermione?”

Does he? Harry’s not really sure. Hermione’s Draco’s friend, and she’s probably more than willing to help… but she’s also really grumpy when she doesn’t get her sleep. Then again... perhaps a grumpy Unspeakabe is exactly what they need.

“Yes, you probably should.”

Ron nods and hurries towards the corridor that leads to the second floor. Harry gets the water boiling and finds three mugs in the slightly lopsided cupboard. He usually drinks out of the slightly chipped one that Rose has decorated with finger paint, but that one is huge and thick, and keeps the tea warm for ages. He roams around for small, thin ones instead. They don’t have time for more than a quick cup while he explains what’s happened and Ron and Hermione wake up. 

There are footsteps on the stairs, and Ron comes back down, wearing his uniform. He grins, when he sees Harry noticing.

“Savage tried to talk me into taking a week of leave, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I’ve rested more than enough!”

“So you’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Yes, he will. He should’ve listened to the Head Auror, though,” Hermione says. She’s tying her hair into a ponytail, and her sentence breaks into a huge yawn.

“I’m so sorry to wake you up,” Harry says. He might as well apologise right away. “But Draco’s in trouble, and I need your help.”

He tells them everything, from the moment the owl woke him up, to Ron stunning him. When he falls silent, his friends just sit there, looking at him for what feels like hours. Finally, Ron clears his throat.

“But what if Malfoy really is their boss?”

“He isn’t! I know you’re not exactly friends, but I just know he’s not!”

“Harry, it’s a Veritaserum statement! You can’t just go up against something like that on a gut feeling.You’ll need real evidence.”

He slumps down in his chair. He knows Ron’s right. Of course he is. But for some reason he thought that his friends would have a solution.

“I know. A counter statement would’ve been a good start, but Cadogan didn’t bother getting one before he locked Draco up for the night. And I don’t think it’s going to count, if I get one. I’m too biased.”

“Then I am too, by being your partner. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow, and tell Savage that you’re shagging the bloke. Let someone else get his statement, and if he really is innocent, they’ll let him go.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work,” Hermione says.

“Why?”

“If it’s Draco’s word against Donovan’s, they’ll have to bring it to the Wizengamot.”

“Fuck!”

Ron nods. “Yeah, God knows what those old farts might decide. Nevermind how long it`l take them tol finish squabbling and actually reach a decision.”

Hermione frowns at her empty mug. “There is another option,” she says slowly. “But I don’t know if Draco’ll agree to it.”

“What is it?”

“Legilimency.”

“No!”

Draco has his arms crossed in front of his chest, but his face is completely blank. The only thing that betrays emotion is his eyes. They’re so full of panic, Harry can almost feel it himself. Guilty eyes, the Auror part of his mind supplies. Harry tells it to shut up, and tries again.

“But it’s the only way to prove that you’re not their leader!”

“I’d rather take my chances with the Wizengamot.”

“Draco…”

“No one is going to poke around in my brain! This is my decision. Don’t try to change it!”

Stupid, arrogant fuck! Harry glares at him.

“Fine. If that’s the way you want it to be. But I’m not going to come down here again. It’ll only make things worse. For both of us.”

“Harry…”

“Bye, Draco. See you at the hearing.” He’s regretting his words, even as he slams the door shut. But he doesn’t go back.

“Harry?” Ron shakes his shoulder, and he straightens up. There’s a bit of a drool spot on his forearm, where he’s been resting his head. But, luckily, the casefile underneath is dry. He wipes at the corner of his mouth.

“You should go home. Get some real sleep,” Ron advises.

He probably should. The whole day’s been a fucking disaster. Savage didn’t really shout, she just looked at him in a very disappointed way that made him squirm, and then asked some horrifyingly embarrassing questions. The meeting took about half an hour, but it felt more like decades.

“Yes… I should,” he concedes.

Ron narrows his eyes.

“But you’re not going to, are you?”

“I was thinking I might go over the list of background information on Bludger. Savage said I could go back into the field when I finished all the desk work.”

“You won’t finish anything by sleeping at your desk. I promised to meet George for a pint after work. Come with us!”

It feels completely wrong to go to the pub while Draco’s still in a cell downstairs, but on the other hand, a Butterbeer and a Firewhiskey will probably make him sleepy enough to stop thinking about it and actually get some rest. Besides, Draco would be safe at home, if he’d only gone along with the Legilimency idea. He can sort of understand why he didn’t, but still...

“Yeah, okay.”

“To Percy!” George raises his glass of Firewhiskey.

“To Percy!” Ron echos, and takes a healthy swig of his own drink.

“Have you both gone mental?” Harry enquires. They both grin at him.

“You haven’t heard?” Ron asks between chortles.

Obviously he hasn’t, because he feels extremely out of the loop right now. “Heard what?”

“Mum finally snapped and sent Percy a howler,” Ron says.

“And he got it in the middle of a Cabinet meeting,” George adds, his voice quivering with held back laughter.

A half snort/half giggle bursts out of him before he can try to rein it in. He lifts his glass. “To Percy! I hope Molly is actually able to make him stop and think...”

“Percy’s an overbearing wanker,” Ron supplies. “Always has been. But what can you expect from someone who was brainwashed by Umbridge?”

George nods. “Yeah. Those new regulatory laws on magical experimentation are making it damn near impossible to be inventive. It’s illegal to brew potions that are not on the Ministry’s approved list. It used to be the other way around, but apparently people need to be protected from their own stupidity more than they need new solutions to their problems.”

“Sounds like something Draco would say,” Harry mutters into his pint. He doesn’t stay for a second round.

He’s dressed and Flooing to the Ministry by seven thirty the next morning, ready to dive back into the piles of background checks and follow-ups strewn across his desk. He hesitates in the lobby. There’s an almost physical force pulling him towards the holding cells. But Savage made it clear yesterday that there is to be absolutely no ‘sullying the good name of the Auror department by fraternizing with a suspect’. His insides twist up painfully at the thought. It might be days–weeks even–before he sees Draco again. He forces his leaden legs to move towards the DMLE instead.

Several cups of tea and discarded files later, he’s skimming through Bludger’s family history, when Ron shows up, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’m at work,” he says in place of a greeting, and Harry can’t really help smiling back.

“So you are.”

Ron’s smile dims at the sight of the overstacked desk.

“Guess we’re stuck in here again today. I reckon Savage did it on purpose, to avoid sending me on a field mission.”

“This isn’t your fault. She’s just trying to avoid me fucking up the case even more.”

“No she’s not. Remember that howler I told you about? The one Mum sent to Percy in the middle of a Cabinet meeting? This is all about me, mate.”

He really doubts that, but having some of the blame shifted off him makes his tense muscles loosen up a fraction. At least Ron doesn’t blame him.

Ron snags a biscuit from the apparently not-so-secret stash he keeps in his drawer. He takes a bite, and gestures at the case file with his half eaten shortbread. “What are you reading?”

“Just going through Bludger’s family background. Thought it might point us to where he’s hiding.”

“Yeah. Good thinking. I’ll grab the next file.”

He holds out his hand, and Harry hands over the next charteque in the pile. He grabs a biscuit of his own, before he goes back to the file.

Apparently, Bludger grew up in one of the old mining towns. At the beginning of his third year, he Levitated a student off the top of the Astronomy Tower in retaliation for a minor incident. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but he was expelled. His parents couldn’t afford sending him to Durmstrang or one of the other boarding schools abroad, so instead he was homeschooled by his mother until he (just barely) completed his OWLs.

Harry looks up from the file. “Did you know Bludger’s brother is an Azkaban guard?”

“A bit ironic, isn’t it? Considering all the petty crime.” Ron waves a stack of what looks like Wizengamot transcripts. “This is mostly just Quidditch brawls, but there are a few cases of theft and possession of illegal potions.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. The brother lives alone in a cottage on the Scottish east coast. Must be practical for work. Think he might help us? Maybe he knows where Bludger’s hiding?”

Ron grins. “We could ask. It’s still fact checking, even if we’re not doing it at our desks.”

They apparate into Bludger’s brother’s garden, and Harry barely has time to find his feet, before he’s overtaken by a violent shiver. The wind that whips through his hair and presses the freezing cold, humid air through his robes carries the smell of the ocean. He can hear the waves crashing onto the rocks on the shore behind the small cottage and the attached shed, which looks like it might blow away in the wind. There’s nothing here but seagulls and yellow, half dead grass. He shivers again, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around his body for heat.

“Well, isn’t this a cosy place?” Ron mutters.

“Let’s get inside before we’re blown into the sea.”

Ron knocks, and Harry squares his shoulders, attempting to look professional despite the cold.

“Yes?” The man who opens the door is short and stocky. And a bit too familiar, he realises with a surge of disappointment. He’s standing in front of the guard who was so nasty to Draco, when they went to interview his father. Bugger! This bloke didn’t seem to like him all that much, when he first met him. He should probably let Ron do the talking.

“Mr Brigg? I’m Auror Weasley, this is my colleague, Auror Potter. May we please ask you a few questions about your brother John?”

Mr Brigg–Mr Prick, Draco’s voice supplies inside his mind–nods. “Yeah? What’s he been up to now?”

“He is wanted for questioning regarding the murder of Adrian and Adrienne Wright. Further, he’s endangered the life of an Auror, as well as two civilians, and resisted arrest. May we come in?” Ron says. Harry has to fight a twitch in his lips, despite the seriousness of the situation. Hearing Ron speak in that formal Auror voice will never stop being funny.

Mr Brigg opens the door a bit wider, and they step into the small, cluttered cottage. “I suppose you’ll want a cuppa?”

A few minutes later, they’re seated in saggy armchairs, cradling chipped novelty mugs.

“When was the last time you spoke to your brother?” Ron asks.

“It’s been a while. I try to keep in touch, but he spends most of his time at the pub with his Quidditch mates, these days.” Mr Brigg takes a sip of his tea. “I haven’t seen him much since Christmas.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be hiding? Old friends? Ex-girlfriends?”

“I don’t think Johnny’s ever had a real girlfriend. He’s always chatting up one tart or another at that bar he goes to. But you could ask our cousin, Daniel, I suppose. He wasn’t exactly rooting for the two of you during the war, if you know what I mean. And Johnny’s always looked up to him.”

Ron nods, and gets his pen and notepad. “Where can we find your cousin?”

“He has a cottage in Wimbourne. Works for the Wasps. Seems that Quidditch and crime go hand in hand in this family. I can find the address for you, if you want.”

Ron nods. “Please.”

He walks over to a small desk in the corner, and thumbs through an old fashioned notebook.

“Here you are.” He shows Ron a page in the book, and he copies it to his notepad.

“Thank you for your help. We’ll contact your cousin. I’m sorry to bother you, but can I please use your toilet before we Apparate to Dorset?”

“Of course. It’s just off the kitchen. Through there.” He points towards the doorway.

The awkward silence after Ron leaves makes Harry squirm in his seat. Mr Brigg just sits there, glancing through the window towards the sea, like he’d rather be taking a brisk walk, than sitting here. Finally the silence becomes too much for him.

“You’re not a Quidditch fan, then?” he can’t help asking.

“I don’t see the point. Besides, I see enough shouting and fighting at work.”

“Right.” Harry puts his empty mug down, just as Ron comes back.

“Thank you Mr Brigg. Please contact us, if you hear from your brother at all.” Ron offers him an Auror Department business card. 

“No trouble, Aurors. I hope you find my brother, before he causes any more harm.”

The door closes behind them, but before he can turn to Disapparate, Ron grabs his arm.

“He’s lying,” he whispers. “Bludger’s here. Did you bring the Cloak?”

He nods, dumbfounded. How the fuck does Ron know if Bludger’s here? But then again, Ron’s usually right.

“Good.”

Before he’s even considered what to do, he feels the sickening lurch of being Side-Along Apparated with no warning. They end up behind a rock formation just off the edge of the garden they just left.

“Let’s put the Cloak on and go back there.”

“Listen! I don’t like him. He was shit to Draco, when we went to Azkaban, but how the fuck do you know he’s lying?” 

“There were two toothbrushes by the sink, and I heard what he said, when I came back from the loo. A bit odd having a Tornadoes scarf lying about, if you don’t like Quidditch.”

“Right. And he kept looking out the window…”

“Let’s get back in there.”

He covers them with the Cloak, and they sneak back towards the house. When they’re half way up the path, the door opens. Mr Brigg looks around before he steps outside, and makes his way to the shed.

“You can come out now. I sent them off chasing cousin Dan.”

There’s a clanking noise of metal and wood from inside the shed, as someone knocks over a gardening tool, and then Bludger steps out.

“Good! I hope they make him spend the night in a holding cell. Bloody wanker.”

“Incarcerous!” Ron shouts.

The ropes shoot from his wand as they’re supposed to, but Bludger manages to dodge them by diving behind the open shed door.

“Stupefy!” Brigg falls to the ground with a satisfying thump.

Ron fights his way free of the Cloak, and runs towards the shed, but before he gets there, the tell-tale sound of Apparition tells them that it’s too late.

“Fuck!” We were so close!” Ron kicks the door and it slams shut.

“At least we got this one. Let’s get him back to the Ministry.” 

Harry checks his watch. It’s been almost an hour, and he really wants to punch Brigg in his stupid, smug mouth. He’s sitting there, smirking at them and refusing to answer questions, while his brother gets more and more time to slip away. Ron looks like he’s about ready to perform an unauthorised Legilimens, or maybe cast an Unforgivable. Which might be a really bad idea, since Savage is standing on the other side of the one way window behind him.

Finally the interoffice memo plane swoops through the small slot at the top of the door. He plucks it from the air, and smirks.

“Want me to get the Veritaserum, Ron?”

Ron grins. “Sure. Thanks mate. I’ll keep Mr Prick here company.”

Brigg scowls, but he’s looking a lot less sure of himself.

When he pops back into the cell a few minutes later, Brigg is obviously nervous. Ron, on the other hand, looks perfectly calm and collected, sitting back with his legs crossed, polishing an invisible speck from the shiny boot resting against his thigh. harry puts the vial of potion on the table in front of him. Ron grins.

“Now, let’s try this again. Do you see this memo? That’s a SDEA autorisation. Do you know what that means? It means that if you don’t comply with the veritaserum, I’m authorised to bring an Unspeakable in here and have her Legilimise you. So, I’m going to need to know which it’ll be.”

“I’ll take the bloody potion. But I don’t know anything. I was just doing what any decent brother would do.” Briggs snatches the vial from the table and unstoppers it with slightly shaky hands. He downs the potion, and slams the vial back down. It’s completely empty. Good. He takes a moment to think about how to voice the questions without leaving too much wiggle room, and counts off the appropriate twenty seconds it’ll take for the potion to work.

“Mr Nathaniel Brigg, are you related to John Brigg, also known as Bludger?”

“Yes. He’s my brother.”

“And do you know where Bludger might be right now?”

“Probably in Ireland. That’s what he was planning, anyway. I suppose he could be in France. Malfoy said we could use his house in Bordeaux. But Johnny was nervous about not speaking French.”

A huge lump of ice spreads through his entire body, pressing on his lungs and making it hard to breathe. He gasps. 

“I’ll get it from here, mate,” Ron mutters. “You just keep an eye on the Quick Quotes Quill.”

He nods and sinks deeper into his chair, hating that he’s so fucking transparent in front of a suspect, and with Savage standing right outside, but grateful for having Ron as his partner. The ice is beginning to make him feel almost numb, and he listens with a sort of detachment, as Ron picks up his line of questioning.

“Draco Malfoy said you could use his house?”

“No. Lucius Malfoy did.”

Lucius? Fuck! Of course. He goes over Jamie Cadogan’s statement again. ‘According to Bludger, our orders come from Malfoy.’ The ice melts just a little, and he listens avidly as Ron asks the next question.

“When did Lucius Malfoy say this?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“And under which circumstances did this conversation take place?”

“When he was giving me my orders.”

“Lucius Malfoy is a prisoner, and you’re a guard at Azkaban Prison, is that correct?” 

“Yes.”

“Why was he giving you orders, then?”

“He told me that he’d pay me. He told me where I could find some things he’d hidden during the war, and he said I’d get more if I helped him.”

“And what were his orders?”

“To get my hands on the Chalice of Infinite Magic and use it to drain the magic from as many Mudbloods and half-bloods as possible. Then help him transfer the magic to him, and get him a wand.”

“When were you planning to steal the magic?”

“The day after tomorrow. Election day. At the party, after the polls close. One candidate’s a halfblood and the other’s a blood traitor, so no matter who wins, this place is going to be crawling with Mudbloods.”

“Right.” Ron casts a quick glance at the window. “To summarise, you admit to taking bribes from a prisoner, conspiring to cause harm to innocent witches and wizards and housing a fugitive?”

“Yes.”

“And did you participate in the murders of Adrian and Adrienne Wright?”

“No.”

“Did you know about the murders before they took place?”

“No.”

“Did you know about them after they took place?”

“Yes.”

“Who committed the murders?”

“My brother John, and his mates, Jamie and Matt.”

Getting someone cleared of a SDEA accusation turns out to be a lot more difficult than getting them accused in the first place. There are over ten pages of forms to fill out, before they can even begin the process, and after that, they’ll have to interview Jamie Cadogan to confirm Brigg’s story.

Ron has wheeled his chair over to Harry’s desk, and is shooting him worried glances, like he’s afraid he is going to march down to the cells and blow open the door himself.

Harry has to admit, he’s not too far off the mark. He stops bouncing his leg, and crosses off another box on the long questionnaire he’s working on. There’s no guarantee that Draco will even want to talk to him, he reminds himself. And even if he does, it’s not going to be an easy conversation to have. But just the thought of being able to finally apologise and try to make things better is making him jittery. And sort of nauseated.

Gracie raps on the partition and pokes her head in.

“Sorry to bother you, but Savage’s asking for you.”

“The both of us?” Ron asks.

“Yes. She’s in her office. She says it’s urgent.”

“We’ll be right there.”

Savage is signing a pile of paperwork so high, it makes Harry feel a tiny twinge of guilt at his previous whining. She looks up and puts her quill back into the holder on the ornate inkwell. 

“Aurors. I think your definition of fact checking is a bit liberal.” She levels them with a look so stern it makes Harry feel like a first year standing in front of McGonagall. “But I suppose you did get valuable information.”

Harry does his best to look repentant. When he risks a glance at Ron, he’s wearing the same, slightly embarrassed face.

“Since you are apparently unable to sit still, I have a new assignment for the two of you.”

She pulls a bent teaspoon from her desk drawer, and Harry’s heart sinks.

“This is your Portkey, Auror Weasley. The Irish Aurors are waiting for you.“

“Yes Ma’am,” Ron says.

Savage casts a drying charm on the scroll she was signing when they came in, rolls it up and holds it out for Harry to take.

“This is a signed release order for Mr Malfoy. You’re leaving for France in half an hour, Auror Potter. Take him with you. It’ll be easier to get through the wards on the Malfoy residence if he’s there.”

“Y-yes, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.”

“I haven’t been able to get a Portkey made. The house is Unplottable, so you’ll have to go by broom.”

“Brooms. Right. No problem. Will the French Aurors be waiting for us?”

“No. They’re standing by and you can call them when you’re there, if you think it’s necessary. We couldn’t find the house, you see…”

“Right. We’ll call them if we need them.”

Savage nods and sends them out of her office with a wave.

He walks down the stairs in a daze. It isn’t until he’s actually standing in front of the heavy door that he starts thinking about what to actually say. He’s been determined to fix things, since five minutes after he slammed this door yesterday morning, but it’s been sort of vague… something he had to do later. And all of a sudden, later is now. He casts the complicated unlocking charm, and turns the knob.

Draco is sitting crosslegged on the narrow wooden bench, his elbows resting on his knees, and his scruffy chin cradled in his hands. He seems to be staring at a spot on the floor, but his hair is falling over his eyes, hiding them from view.

“I’m so sorry.”

Draco looks up, startled, and almost falls off the bench.

“Harry!” He jumps to his feet and takes a few steps. But then he hesitates and a guarded look seeps into his eyes. Harry is itching to reach out and smooth that small frown line between his brows, but Draco has stopped in the middle of the small room, too far away to touch.

“Why are you here?”

“To get you out.”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s a really long story…I’ll tell you while we get our brooms.”

“Brooms?” His expression morphs from apprehension into confusion.

“We have to go to your house in France,” Harry explains.

“What the hell are you talking about? My house in France?” He narrows his eyes. “I hope you’re not asking me to flee the fucking country, Potter. Because I’m not going to run away like a fucking criminal!”

“No! No. Sorry. I’m not explaining this very well, am I? Savage signed the release order. It was your father… He was orchestrating everything from Azkaban. Please! We don’t have much time.”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Harry! Slow down! I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your father has been controlling the New Dawn from his cell. The guard who was hostile to you is Bludger’s brother. Your father used him to get messages to his minions. And Bludger might be hiding in your summer house in France.”

“Wh- oh,” Draco says faintly. He staggers back to the bench and sits down, hiding his face in his hands for a moment, and Harry’s heart swoops. Fuck! There’s no way he could have put the things he’s just said delicately, but maybe barging in here like this was a bad idea.  
Then Draco looks up, his expression set. “I need to get my wand before we go.”

“I already got it. And a set of flying robes.”

They fly in silence for a long time. They’re almost at the channel, when Draco steers his broom closer and shouts over the wind.

“Hermione couldn’t perform the spell, because she knows me too well. And I wasn’t going to let a random Unspeakable rummage around in my brain.”

Stupid, arrogant fuck!

“Why the fuck not?” Harry shouts back. “It could have kept you out of fucking prison! You could have gone to Azkaban, you stubborn git!”

Even on the broom, he can see how Draco’s shoulders tense. He pushes his broom so close their knees are touching. It’s a dangerous maneuver this high up, but he’s not having this conversation in shouts, and they’re both good flyers. He loosens his grip on the broom, steering one handed for a moment, as he reaches out and rests his hand on Draco’s arm.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my decision to make.”

Draco turns slightly and looks at him. There’s something new in his eyes… something more honest than he’s ever seen from Draco.

“My Aunt and the Dark Lord used to practise Legilimency on me. It’s the way my father found out I wasn’t as heterosexual as he assumed. My aunt taunted me for weeks about it. She would threaten to tell, and then not do it anyway. Over and over again. I had no idea when she might suddenly tell my parents. And when the Dark Lord looked into my mind I’d feel… so fucking exposed. I couldn’t let someone do that to me again. I’d rather sit in an Azkaban cell”

It still hurts like hell that Draco has been willing to throw everything away like that. But it makes sense, somehow. Harry shudders. The feeling of Voldemort’s presence inside his mind, slithering around, prying through the memories of his most private moments, is not something he’ll ever forget.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he offers. What else can he say?

The Malfoy’s summer residence is nothing like Harry expects. Not that he’s spent a great amount of time imagining it. But the vague image of a huge chateau he’s built in his mind is not accurate at all. They touch the ground under the cover of a small patch of trees right outside a small village. The first alders and poplars are just starting to bud, and the sun is warm enough that Harry turns his face up for a few seconds and just stands there, soaking in the rays, before remembering where he is, and why. When he opens his eyes again, Draco’s looking at him with an expression he can only describe as… fond. Something heavy that he didn’t even know was holding him down is lifting from his shoulders, making it suddenly easier to breathe.

“It’s a mixed village. Both Muggles and wizards. They know me, so there’s no reason to hide,” Draco says. The corner of his mouth lifts in a soft smile. “On the other hand…May I transfigure your uniform for you?”

“Yes. Sure.”

Draco casts a charm on both of them, and he finds himself wearing a black, muggle suit. Draco’s similarly dressed, and Harry has no idea how he manages to look so crisp and put together after two nights in a cell and a quick trip to the Ministry bathroom. Draco looks him over and nods his approval.

“You’ll do. Very James Bond,” he says.

He should be used to the Muggle references by now, but those words coming from Draco still sound so strange.

Draco narrows his eyes slightly and raises his wand again. He doesn’t even have time to get nervous, not really. Then he feels his hair being tugged this way and that, before it settles into some elaborate style that’s not at all like his usual scruffy look.

“Even better,” Draco says. Then he starts walking towards the village square. Harry falls into step beside him.

“Our house is on the east side of the village square, right next to the fountain.” He points at something behind the trees on the square.

The house has been Disillusioned, but as soon as Draco has pointed it out, Harry sees it. A warm yellow, two storey building with white windows. It looks… friendly. Cosy, almost, when compared to the Manor.

“Mother really enjoys spending time here. Particularly in summer. She wears dresses with floral patterns and goes shopping at the farmers market.”

Picturing Narcissa Malfoy in a flowery dress, carrying a wicker basket full of produce, is enough to make his head hurt.

“It does seem more relaxed here,” he offers, uncertain what to say.

“It is.”

“Remember what to do?” Harry whispers.

“Dismantle the wards, then stay back and let you do the actual search, and be ready to call the Aurors,” Draco summarises.

“Right.”

Draco raises his wand and starts casting. Then he lowers it again, and flattens himself against the wall, casting nervous glances at the windows. “Shit,” he whispers. “The wards are already down. Someone’s here.”

Harry throws the Cloak over both of them.

“Do you think we can get in without them noticing us?”

“I don’t know… wait! I can call one of the elves. They’re bound to the family. They’ll answer me.”

“Good idea! Is there somewhere we can talk to an elf without being seen?”

“I used to hide behind the cypress over there.” He points at a huge tree on the other side of the small square.

“Fifi?”

A small elf, dressed in a linen dish towel appears with a pop.

“Monsieur?”

“I need your help,” Draco whispers. “Please tell me if anyone is inside the house.”

“Oui. There are two men there. They are in the dining room, and they are drinking Monsieur’s best wine. Fifi tried to stop them, but they said that Monsieur Lucius sent them here.” She wrings her hands. “Fifi knows that Monsieur Lucius is no longer a respectable wizard, but he is still a Malfoy and Fifi must do as he commands.”

Draco puts a hand on her shoulder, and squeezes gently.

“Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out. Can you seal the house, so they can’t Disapparate?”

“Oui.” The elf nods so vigorously, her ears flop against her bony head. “Fifi can do that.”

“Good. We’ll go inside under this Cloak, and you’re going to guard the door. If they try to leave, please stun them. Nothing else. Just stun them. Do you understand?”

Fifi nods again and Disapparates back to the house. Harry slings the cloak over both of them, and they shuffle back across the square and carefully open the front door. 

They sneak through the hall and Draco tugs him towards a wide set of doors. The sound of rough laughter is coming from the room beyond. Harry digs his heels into the gleaming floor, and they come to a stop.

“We can’t both stay under this.” His lips are so close to Draco’s ear, he feels him shiver when he breathes the words in a low whisper, before he slips out from under the cloak. “You stay hidden and cover me.”

“Like hell I will! This is my house,” Draco hisses. He’s slipped the Cloak down, making his head float eerily in thin air.

“Fine! Just… be careful.”

The glare Draco’s been leveling at him melts into something much softer, and Harry has to remind himself that this is a really, really bad time to grab him and kiss him senseless. He settles for a quick peck on the lips, and kicks the door open.

He’s firing his first stunner before he’s even fully inside the room. 

“Stupefy!”

“Protego!” Matt goes down, but not before he’s thrown a shield in front of Bludger, who’s jumping to his feet and grabbing a canvas tote from the floor. Harry watches as he turns on his heel to Disapparate, but instead of vanishing, he overbalances and stumbles into the table. The bag rolls away from him with a metallic clank and Harry spots a glimpse of gold.

“Accio Chalice!” Draco yells, and the bag flies into his waiting arms.

“Diffindo!”

He watches in horror, as the curse grazes Draco’s leg, slicing clean through his trousers and into his flesh.

Draco screams, and drops to the ground, and Harry’s blood runs cold.

He spins around and points his wand at Bludger.

“Petrificus totalus! Incarcerous!”

Bludger hits the floor face first. Good, Harry thinks maliciously. Then he’s throwing himself down next to Draco, and tuning everything else out.

“How bad is it? What can I do?”

It’s hard to see the blood against the dark wool of his trousers, but there’s already a red smudge on the floor, where his leg is resting. When he touches Draco’s leg, his hands come away wet. He rips the fabric and his stomach turns at the sight of the deep, uneven gash. Remembering his emergency first aid training, he lifts the leg and presses his hands down above the wound, trying to slow the bleeding.

“Draco?”

“I don’t know. I’m feeling a bit dizzy,” Draco murmurs. His face is greyish and his eyes are wide and unfocused. Panicky. Fuck! He has to do something.

“Fifi!” he yells, desperately.

The elf appears almost immediately. When she sees Draco, her ears droop and quiver, and her huge eyes fill with tears.

“Do you know how to stop the blood? He was hid with a Severing Charm.” Harry explains.

“Fifi is not a healer, Monsieur. But Fifi can stop the blood.”

“Please!”

The elf puts her hands on Draco’s leg and closes her eyes. She starts humming to herself, and the air fills with a beautiful glowing light, almost like the gentle spring sun outside. When he risks a look at the wound, the flow of blood has stilled to a quiet oozing.

Fifi opens her eyes again, and lifts her hand.

“Fifi will get a Blood-Replenishing Potion. Monsieur Draco’s friend should wrap the leg.” The little elf snaps her fingers, and a small mountain of white bandages appear. She sends him a stern look. “Be careful. Do not hurt Monsieur Draco. Fifi will be back shortly.”

“Er, yes. Right. I will. Thank you.” He picks up the bandages, and starts wrapping them around the wound. No. He’ll have to remove more of the fabric first. But a cutting spell isn’t really an option. He looks around.

“Accio vase!”

A small silver vase flies into his hand. He transfigures it into a pair of scissors, and cuts all the way around Draco’s thigh, making the ripped fabric fall away and leaving Draco’s leg exposed from his mid thigh down. He checks Draco over again. His face is white, and his breathing is getting shallow. He must have lost more blood than Harry thought. Fuck! He hopes Fifi hurries with the Potion!

He clenches his teeth, and breathes deeply through his nose. The clammy skin against his fingertips, when he brushes them over Draco’s forehead makes him shiver. Draco forces a smile, but it looks more like a grimace.

“I should stay away from cutting curses.”

A flash of a flooded bathroom. The water on the floor turning red. Harry can’t help the slightly hysterical bark of laughter that escapes him, despite nothing being even remotely funny.

“Yes you really should!“

“What are you going to do about those two?” Draco gestures vaguely to Bludger and Matt on the floor next to the dining table.

“I’ll send for a team to pick them up. You’re not fit to Apparate or Floo.” And I’m not going anywhere without you, he finishes silently.

“And the cup?”

Yes. What about the cup? He should hand it over to the Ministry, like he’s supposed to. The Department of Mysteries are probably itching to start examining it. But something makes him hesitate. Percy has been a good Minister for Magic in many ways, but still... He realises that he’s rubbing his thumb across the thin, white scars on the back of his hand, and stops. Giving an overbearing arse like Percy that much power is... unsettling.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Neither do I”, Draco says. “I’m not sure something like that should even exist… It has too great a potential for evil.”

Draco’s eyes slip shut.

“Damn it! Stay awake, Draco! Please!”

Draco doesn’t answer, but his eyes open sluggishly, and he blinks up at him a few times. Fifi appears with a vial of sparkly liquid, and he presses it to Draco’s lips.

“Please drink the potion,” he urges.

The backup team arrives in a matter of minutes after he’s sent a message to Savage through the Protean charm on his badge. Relief courses through him, when he sees Hestia and her partner Williamson Apparate in the square outside. Good. These two aren’t going to give him grief about wanting to stay with Draco. Hestia smiles and waves at him, when she spots him through the window. He looks to where Draco is sitting in a comfortable chair, transfigured from one of the hard backed dining chairs. He’s starting to get a bit of colour back, and the bandage is as pristine and white as it was ten minutes ago when he and Fifi changed it. The wound must have stopped bleeding. At least for now. A curse wound like that isn’t easy to heal, though. Draco’ll have to see a healer as soon as possible.

He can hear Fifi letting Hestia and Williamson in. Draco’s words echo in his mind. It has too great a potential for evil. He makes sure Matt and Bludger aren’t watching. The he hurriedly shrinks the cup and wraps it up in his handkerchief. It feels heavy in his hand, and he’s almost afraid to touch it, despite the protective fabric. He stuffs it deep into his pocket, and focusses on his colleagues, who are being shown into the dining room.

It doesn’t take long to levitate the prisoners and let Hestia and Williamson know what’s happened, and that they’ll come home as soon as Draco’s up for it. A few minutes later, they’re alone.

“Do you want to see a healer?”

“Not here. Mother will have a fit if she hears about this and can’t fuss over me herself! We should go back, and I’ll go to St Mungo’s.” Draco looks down at the bandage. “But I don’t think I can Apparate or Floo. I don’t want to risk it starting to bleed again while we’re in transit. I’ll be fine on my broom, as long as we don’t fly too high and fast.”

Draco doesn’t look like he’ll be fine. Actually, he doesn’t look like he should be flying at all. But he can still hear Draco’s words in his head, telling him that he’s not going to make him see a healer with his broken ankle, so insisting that they stay here and see a local healer would be arrogant as hell. Besides, the last time he tried to persuade Draco to do something he didn’t want, he ended up in prison. Trying again might not end very well.

“Do you want to rest up a bit before we go? It’s almost two hours of flying...”

“The Blood-Replenishing Potion worked wonders. And I’ll take something for the pain before we leave. I’d really rather just go home.”

Fifteen minutes later, they’re back in the air. The wind that was pushing against them on the way here is pushing them forward, making it easier to focus on flying steadily. Harry keeps the course even, and pulls his broom close to Draco’s. Close enough that they can talk, but also close enough that he can grab Draco’s broom and keep it steady if he needs to. The fact that Draco doesn’t tell him off for coddling him, along with the way he grips his broom with both hands, steering a bit to the right to counteract the way he’s leaning to his left, trying to keep pressure off his wounded leg speaks volumes. They’re just spotting Dover in the distance, when Draco speaks up.

“I think we should drop it over the sea.”

“W-What?”

“The Chalice. We should drop it into the ocean.” Draco’s gaze is challenging, but absolutely sincere. And Harry can’t really say that he disagrees. Except...

“I don’t know how to explain that it’s missing.”

Draco’s serious look dissolves in a smirk.

“We’ll just tell them that I swerved off course because of my leg, and you had to do a Wronski Feint. It dropped out of your pocket when you saved my life with your mad flying skills.”

“That’s the worst explanation for anything, I’ve ever heard.”

“No it’s not. Everybody knows you have a complex about saving.people.” Draco’s smile is so smug, it really makes Harry want to punch him in the arm. He smiles back instead, and takes the chalice from his pocket. He holds it between gloved fingers, for Draco to see.

“Are you sure about this?” Draco asks. ”We’re going against everything we’ve been taught… I mean, I’m purposely destroying an ancient magical artefact, and you’re destroying evidence. If this gets out we’ll probably both get fired. Or worse.”

Harry feels his lips tug up into a smile.

“The I suppose we’ll just have to trust each other, won’t we?”

Draco nods, and reaches for his outstretched hand. His fingers are icy, but his touch still makes a pleasant, tingly heat shoot up the length of his arm. He looks at the tiny, wrapped chalice in their joined hands.

“Together?” Draco asks.

Harry nods and lets it go.

Draco’s still limping slightly, but he refuses to use a cane, so Harry stays close enough that he’ll be able to grab his elbow if needed. He hasn’t told him why, but Harry secretly thinks it’s because he doesn’t want to look like his father. Not that he does. Harry looks at the man at his side. Draco is wearing his usual work attire of khakis and sturdy boots, insisting that they make a slight detour on the way to Malfoy Manor to take a look at his neglected excavation. Even Hermione’s constant reassurances and Martin and Catherine’s visit yesterday hasn’t been enough to reassure him that he can take a few more days to recuperate before going back. 

The young mediwizard behind the counter looks up and waves as they pass. Harry’s been making more visits to St. Mungo’s in the past week than ever before. Sometimes alone, and in the last few days, sometimes escorting Narcissa Malfoy. Contrary to his previous visits to the hospital, he doesn’t really mind. Especially not today. Because today, he’s got Draco’s bag slung over his shoulder, and Draco walking next to him to the Floo. Except Draco has stopped to look at the screen on the wall in the waiting area, where they’re showing scenes from Percy’s victory party. Statistics from different districts, Percy waving at a group of happy volunteers and a flustered looking Molly in a new dress. Draco turns to him and he shrugs. Percy will get four more years as Minister. But he won’t have the unlimited power that the Chalice offers. It might not be ideal, but it’s good enough for now. A lot can happen in four years, Harry thinks. But right now, that’s not really important.

Draco has started walking again, and he hurries to catch up. They step into the fireplace, and he wraps an arm around Draco’s waist to keep him steady while they travel. It’s time to go home.

**Author's Note:**

> You may comment here or on [Livejournal](http://harrybang.livejournal.com/11387.html)


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